
































































































































































































































THE STORY OF 
A BAD BOY 


BY 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 

BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 


HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
ftitterjfi&e preg? Cambri&oc 
I9H 



c - . J 

COPYRIGHT, 1869 AND 1S97, BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
COPYRIGHT, I9II, BY MARY ELIZABETH ALDRICH 
COPYRIGHT, I914, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



JUL -2 1314 

©CI.A374645 


CONTENTS 


Note to the Visitors’ Edition 

I. In which I introduce Myself 

II. In WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 

III. On Board the Typhoon . 

IV. Rivermouth 

V. The Nutter House and the Nutter 

Family . 

VI. Lights and Shadows 

VII. One Memorable Night 

VIII. The Adventures of a Fourth 
IX. I become an R.M.C. . 

X. I fight Conway .... 

XI. All about Gypsy 

XII. Winter at Rivermouth . 

XIII. The Snow-Fort on Slatter’s Hill . 

XIV. The Cruise of the Dolphin . 

XV. An Old Acquaintance turns up 

XVI. In which Sailor Ben spins a Yarn 

XVII. How we astonished Rivermouth 
XVIII. A Frog he would a-wooing go 


ix 

3 

7 

13 

23 

36 

49 

7i 

86 

100 

IIO 

122 

131 

139 

iSi 

173 

1 88 

201 

221 


VI 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


XIX. I become a Blighted Being . . 239 

XX. In which I prove Myself to be the 

Grandson of my Grandfather 246 
XXI. In which I leave Rivermouth . 266 

XXII. Exeunt Omnes 273 




ILLUSTRATIONS 


The Nutter House . . . . . Frontispiece 

The house in Court Street, Portsmouth, N. H., formerly 
owned and occupied by Thomas Darling Bailey, Aldrich's 
grandfather, who was the original of Grandfather Nutter. 




The Hall -36 

“A wide staircase leads from the hall to the second story." 

The Garden . . 38 / 

“ In the rear was a pleasant garden, coveri .1/ perhaps a 
quarter of an acre, full of plum-trees and gooseDerry- 
bushes." The garden is now planted with all the flowers 
mentioned in Aldrich’s poems. 

Tom Bailey’s Room . . . . . . .40 ' 

“ Nothing among my new surroundings gaye me more 
satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartmerit that had 
been prepared for myself.’’ 


The Garret ... .... 44 

“ Here met together, as if by some preconcerted arrange- 
ment, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the 
spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-look- 
ing boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from 
business, ‘ weary with the march of life.’ " 

The Sitting Room . .50 

“ When night came, I felt still more lonesome. My 
grandfather sat in his armchair the greater part of the eve- 
ning, reading the Rivermouth Barnacle, the local news- 
paper. . . . There was little or no conversation during the 
evening." 


The Pine Forest 58 

“ The endless pine forest that skirted the town was our 
favorite haunt." 

The Parlor 68 

Where Tom spent some uncomfortable Sunday morn- 
ings. “ Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day. 

It is open this June morning, and is pervaded by a strong 
smell of centre-table." 


viii ILLUSTRATIONS 

Captain Nutter’s Room 76 

The room is in the front of the house on the second floor, 
immediately adjoining the hall bedroom where Tom slept, 
a fact that added greatly to the anxiety of the latter when 
he wished to leave the house after 1 1 o’clock at night. 

The Dining-Room 88 

The room in which Tom had a somewhat uncomfortable 
breakfast on the morning of the 4th of July. 

The Spare Room 128 

A comfortable room kept for the convenience of visitors. 

The Kitchen 190 

“ After tea, that same evening, we assembled around the 
table in the kitchen — the only place where Sailor Ben felt 
at home — to hear what he had to say for himself.” 

An Old Wharf 204 

“ A silent, dreamy old wharf, covered with strange weeds 
and mosses.” This is the wharf at the end of Court Street 
where Aldrich, in his boyhood, spent many delightful days. 

A similar wharf near by, where the guns were fired, has 
disappeared. 

Aunt Abigail’s Room 214 

“ The door of Miss Abigail’s bedroom opened hastily, 
and that pink of maidenly propriety stepped out into the 
hall in her nightgown — the only indecorous thing I ever 
knew her to do.” 

The Blue Chintz Room ....... 228 

“The blue chintz room, into which a ray of sun was 
never allowed to penetrate, was thrown open and dusted, 
and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses 
placed on the old-fashioned bureau. ... I felt sure it was for 

no ordinary person that all these preparations were in pro- 
gress.” 

The Memorial Room 264 

At the rear of the Nutter House is a fireproof building 
in which are arranged tastefully the large collection of Mr. 
Aldrich’s pictures, manuscripts, books, and many other 
articles which he prized. The small table at the end of 
the room is the one upon which “ The Story of a Bad Boy ” 
was written. 


INTRODUCTION TO THE 
VISITOR’S EDITION 

BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT 

If Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day and 
could enter the front door of his grandfather’s house 
in Court Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he 
would be likely to have a strange feeling of sud- 
denly renewed youth; for his eyes would rest upon 
the same rooms and many of the same furnishings 
as those which greeted him in 1849, when he re- 
turned to the old house, a lad of twelve, to enter 
upon those happy boyish experiences so pleasantly 
related in “The Story of a Bad Boy.” And then, as 
he passed from room to room and gazed once more 
upon the old familiar sights, he would experience a 
deeper and richer joy — a sense of pride, mingled 
with love and gratitude, for this unique and splen- 
did tribute to his memory, from his faithful wife 
and many loyal friends. 

In the summer of 1907, .following the death of Mr. 
Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of that year, 
it was suggested in a local newspaper of Ports- 
mouth, New Hampshire, that the old Bailey house, 
where “Tom Bailey” lived with his “Grandfather 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


Nutter,” should be purchased by the town and re- 
furnished as a permanent memorial to its distin- 
guished son. The response was instant and hearty. 
The Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial Association 
was at once formed, and a fund of ten thousand 
dollars was raised by popular subscriptions, in sums 
varying from one dollar to one thousand dollars. 
The house, which had fallen into alien hands and 
had not been kept in good repair, was purchased 
and restored to its original condition, and the heirs 
gladly gave back all that had been taken away at 
the death of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, 
the restored house was formally dedicated by a 
distinguished representation of Aldrich’s friends, 
including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean 
Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Went- 
worth Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel L. 
Clemens, and many others whose names are well 
known. 

The “Nutter” house, or the “Aldrich Memo- 
rial” as it is officially known, impresses one with a 
sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen memorials 
that are barn-like in their emptiness, so difficult has 
it been to secure a sufficient number of relics to fur- 
nish the rooms; others impress me like shops for the 
sale of souvenirs; others have the cold, touch-me- 
not aspect of a museum; and some are overloaded 
with busts, pictures, and inscriptions intended to 
convey an impression of the greatness of the former 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


occupant. The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks 
as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off to 
the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigail and 
Kitty Collins, after “tidying” the rooms to perfec- 
tion, had slipped away to gossip with the neighbors. 
The visitor has a feeling that real people are living 
there and is surprised to learn that at a certain hour 
each day the attendants go away and lock it up for 
the night. 

Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband took 
her there for the first time, as his bride, the old house 
made such a strong impression upon her mind that 
when she came to restore the place, many years 
afterward, she remembered distinctly where every 
piece of furniture used to stand. The perfection of 
her work is seen in the hundreds of little touches — 
the shawl thrown carelessly over the back of a 
chair, the fan lying on the sofa, the books on the 
centre table, the music on the old-fashioned square 
piano, grandfather’s Bible and spectacles on his bed- 
room table, the embroidered coverlet in the “blue- 
chintz room,” the netting over Aunt Abigail’s bed, 
the clothing in the closets, and even the night- 
clothes carefully laid out on each corpulent feather 
bed. I fancy the most loving touches of all were 
given to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey 
slept. There is the little window out of which Tom 
swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins’s 
clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o’clock, and 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night before 
“the Fourth.” The “pretty chintz curtain” may 
not be the one Tom knew, but it is very like it; and 
there is a very good imitation of the original wall- 
paper, on which Tom counted two hundred and 
sixty-eight birds, each individual one of which he 
admired, although no such bird ever existed. He 
knew the exact number because he once counted 
them when laid up with a black eye and dreamed 
that the whole flock flew out of the window. The 
little bed has “a patch quilt of more colors than 
were in Joseph’s coat,” and across it lies a clean 
white waistcoat waiting for Tom to put it on, as 
though to-morrow would be Sunday. Above the 
head of the bed are the two oak shelves, holding the 
very books that Tom loved. In front of the window 
is the “high-backed chair studded with brass nails 
like a coffin,” and on the right “a chest of carved 
mahogany drawers” and “a looking-glass in a fili- 
greed frame.” A little swallow-tailed coat, once 
worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a chair, ready 
to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey is expected 
home to-night! 

Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow should 
be stormy. “Here meet together, as if by some pre- 
concerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs 
of the household, all the spavined tables, all the 
seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the 
split walking-sticks that have retired from business, 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

weary with the march of life.” One slight liberty 
has been taken, in placing “The Rivermouth Thea- 
tre” in one comer of the attic, next to Kitty Col- 
lins’s room, but this may be forgiven in view of the 
fact that the bam, where the “Theatre” really was, 
has disappeared. 

In our anxiety to see Tom’s room and the attic, 
we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. Let 
us now go down and inspect the other rooms with 
more leisure. 

In the front of the house, on the second floor, and 
at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, 
is Grandfather Nutter’s room. It was too near for 
Tom’s convenience, and that is why the young gen- 
tleman lowered himself from the window by a rope 
— at least, that was the reason he doubtless argued 
to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of 
exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a 
sound sleeper and Tom might have walked boldly 
downstairs without awakening him. Still he would 
have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail’s room at 
the head of the stairs, and if the old lady had sud- 
denly appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped 
a dose of “hot drops,” which his aunt considered a 
certain cure for any known ailment, from a black 
eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be re- 
membered, was the maiden sister of Captain Nut- 
ter, who “swooped down on him,” at the funeral of 
the captain’s wife, “with a bandbox in one hand 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the other.” 
Though apparently intending to stay only a few 
days, she decided that her presence was indispensa- 
ble to the captain, and whether he wished it or not 
she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might 
have stayed longer had not death released her from 
the self-imposed duty. 

On the right of Tom’s room is “the blue-chintz 
room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed to 
penetrate.” But it was “thrown open and dusted, 
and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of 
pot-roses” on the occasion of Nelly Glentworth’s 
visit, and a very delightful room Nelly must have 
found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, 
under the skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich. 

Across the hall from Aunt Abigail’s room is the 
guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair by 
the window, with a Bible and candle conveniently 
placed on a stand close by, give the visitor every 
opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of 
mind before taking a plunge into the depths of the 
snow-white mountain of feathers, hospitably piled 
up to an enormous height for his comfort. 

Descending now to the main floor (for we are in- 
specting this house exactly contrary to the usual 
order), we step into the large corner room at our 
left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconso- 
lately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven 
to distraction by the monotonous click-click of 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


Aunt Abigail’s knitting-needles, but sometimes hap- 
pily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going 
to sleep over his newspaper and setting fire to it with 
the small block-tin lamp which he held in his hand. 

Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom 
open except on Sundays, and was “ pervaded by a 
strong smell of centre table.” Here again we fancy 
Tom sitting in one corner, “crushed.” All his 
favorite books are banished to the sitting-room 
closet until Monday morning. There is nothing to 
do and nothing to read except Baxter’s “Saint’s 
Rest.” “Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, 
lightsome hearts, all are banished.” It was no fault 
of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, for 
there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass 
andirons from which a wonderful amount of cheer 
might have been extracted, while a piano in one cor- 
ner and some shelves of books in another were ca- 
pable of providing boundless entertainment, had the 
room been accessible on any other day than Sunday. 

Passing down through the hall we enter a door 
on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember 
how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at the 
breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of 
July, by reading from the Rivermouth “Barnacle” 
an account of the burning of the stage-coach the 
night before? “Miscreants unknown,” read the 
grandfather, while Tom’s hair stood on end. “Five 
dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate will catch 
them,” continued the old gentleman, while Tom 
nearly ceased to breathe. And the sly old fox knew 
all about it and had already settled Tom’s share of 
the damages! 

We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we 
ought to have visited first, as everybody else does. 
A more delightful New England kitchen could 
scarcely be imagined. This was the only place 
where Sailor Ben felt at home — and no wonder, 
for how could any room have a more inviting fire- 
place? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed 
by the atmosphere of the sitting-room and found 
relief in Kitty Collins’s funny Irish stories. And 
here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around 
the table while he spun his yarn “ all about a man as 
has made a fool of hisself.” 

This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house 
of to-day — every room brings back memories of 
Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail, 
Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are 
so perfect that we should not have been surprised 
if any one of these old friends had suddenly con- 
fronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon 
their personalities and upon “The Story of a Bad 
Boy.” The illusion is so complete that we scarcely 
gave a thought to the author of the tale un-til we 
entered the Memorial building at the rear. Sud- 
denly Tom Bailey vanished and with him all the 


INTRODUCTION 


XVII 


other ghosts of the old house. We stood in the 
presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the 
writer of a multitude of delightful tales, and the 
man of genial personality. Here, in a single large 
room, are brought together the priceless auto- 
graphs, manuscripts, first editions, and pictures 
which Aldrich had found pleasure in collecting. 
Here is the little table on which he wrote “The 
Story of a Bad Boy,” and there are cases contain- 
ing countless presents, trophies, and expressions of 
regard from his friends. The walls are hung with 
manuscripts framed in connection with portraits of 
their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have 
them. At the end of the room is a handsome oil 
painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to 
suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial 
nature, his varied attainments, and the extent of 
his wide circle of distinguished friends. Above all, 
the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affection- 
ate loyalty to his memory that has led his family to 
bring together the material for a memorial unsur- 
passed in variety of interest and tasteful arrange- 
ment of details. 

Even the garden in the rear of the house is made 
to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for here are 
growing all the flowers mentioned in his poetry, 
blending their perfumes and uniting harmoniously 
their richness of color in one graceful tribute to the 
beauty and delicacy of his verse. 



( 

THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 





THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


CHAPTER I 

IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF 

This is the Story of a Bad Boy. Well, not 
such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy ; and I 
ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that 
boy myself. 

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I 
hasten to assure him here that I have no dark 
confessions to make. I call my story the story 
of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from 
those faultless young gentlemen who gener- 
ally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly 
because I really was not a cherub. I may 
truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, 
blessed with fine digestive powers, and no 
hypocrite. I did not want to be an angel and 
with the angels stand ; I did not think the 
missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. 
Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson 
Crusoe ; and I failed to send my little pocket- 


4 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, 
but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and 
taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy, 
such as you may meet anywhere in New Eng- 
land, and no more like the impossible boy in a 
story-book than a sound orange is like one that 
has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the 
beginning. 

Whenever a new scholar came to our school, 
I used to confront him at recess with the fol- 
lowing words : “ My name ’s Tom Bailey ; 
what ’s your name ? ” If the name struck me 
favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil 
cordially ; but if it did not, I would turn on 
my heel, for I was particular on this point. 
Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Sprig- 
gins were deadly affronts to my ear ; while 
Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were 
passwords to my confidence and esteem. 

Ah me ! some of those, dear fellows are 
rather elderly boys by this time — lawyers, 
merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what 
not ? Phil Adams (a special good name that 
Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I picture 
him to myself with his head closely shaved — 
he never had too much hair — and a long pig- 
tail hanging down behind. He is married, I 
hear ; and I hope he and she that was Miss 
Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


5 


^ross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea 
m a sky-blue tower hung with bells. It is so I 
think of him ; to me he is henceforth a jewelled 
mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. 
Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with 
spectacles balanced on the bridge of that re- 
markable nose which, in former days, was so 
plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the 
boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just 
to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a 
judge ! What would he do to me now, I won- 
der, if I were to sing out “ Pepper ! ” some day 
in court ? Fred Langdon is in California, in 
the native-wine business — he used to make 
the best licorice-water / ever tasted ! Binny 
Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying- 
Ground ; and Jack Harris, too, is dead — 
Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the 
famous snowball battles of Slatter’s Hill. Was 
it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regi- 
ment on its way to join the shattered Army 
of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years 
ago. It was at the battle of the Seven Pines. 
Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until 
he had dashed into the Rebel battery ! Se 
they found him — lying across the enemy’s 
guns. 

How we have parted, and wandered, and 
married, and died ! I wonder what has b$- 


6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

come of all the boys who went to the Temple 
Grammar School at Rivermouth when I was a 
youngster ? 

“All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! ” 

It is with no ungentle hand I summon them 
back, for a moment, from that Past which has 
closed upon them and upon me. How plea- 
santly they live again in my memory ! Happy, 
magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even 
Conway, my ancient foe, stands forth trans- 
figured,, with a sort of dreamy glory encircling 
his bright red hair ! 

With the old school formula I begin these 
sketches of my boyhood. My name is Tom 
Bailey ; what is yours, gentle reader ? I take 
for granted that it is neither Wiggins nor 
Spriggins, and that we shall get on famously 
together, and be capital friends forever. 


CHAPTER II 


IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 

I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had 
a chance to become very well acquainted with 
that pretty New England town, my parents 
removed to New Orleans, where my father 
invested his money so securely in the banking 
business that he was never able to get more 
than half of it out again. But of this here- 
after. 

I was only eighteen months old at the time 
of the removal, and it did not make much 
difference to me where I was, because I was so 
small ; but several years later, when my father 
proposed to take me North to be educated, I 
had my own peculiar views on the subject. I 
instantly kicked over the little negro boy who 
happened to be standing by me at the moment, 
and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of 
the piazza, declared that I would not be taken 
away to live among a lot of Yankees ! 

You see I was what is called “a Northern 
man with Southern principles.” I had no 


8 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


recollection of New England : my earliest 
memories were connected with the South, with 
Aunt Chloe, my old negro nurse, and with the 
great ill-kept garden in the centre of which 
stood our house — a white-washed brick house 
it was, with wide verandas — shut out from 
the street by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia 
trees. I knew I was born at the North, but 
hoped nobody would find it out. I looked 
upon the misfortune as something so shrouded 
by time and distance that may be nobody re- 
membered it. I never told my schoolmates I 
was a Yankee, because they talked about the 
Yankees in such a scornful way as to make me 
feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born 
in Louisiana, or at least in one of the Border 
States. And this impression was strengthened 
by Aunt Chloe, who said, “ Dar ain’t no gentl’- 
men in the Norf noway,” and on one occasion 
terrified me beyond measure by declaring, “ If 
any of dem mean whites tries to git me away 
from marster, I ’s jes’ gwine to knock ’em on 
de head wid a gourd ! ” 

The way this poor creature’s eyes flashed 
and the tragic air with which she struck at an 
imaginary “ mean white ” are amcng the most 
vivid things in my memory of those days. 

To be frank, my idea of the North was about 
as accurate as that entertained by the well- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


9 


educated Englishmen of the present day con- 
cerning America. I supposed the inhabitants 
were divided into two classes — Indians and 
white people ; that the Indians occasionally 
dashed down on New York, and scalped any 
woman or child (giving the preference to chil- 
dren) whom they caught lingering in the out- 
skirts after nightfall ; that the white men were 
either hunters or schoolmasters, and that it 
was winter pretty much all the year round. The 
prevailing style of architecture I took to be 
log-cabins. 

With this delightful picture of Northern 
civilization in my eye, the reader will easily 
understand my terror at the bare thought of 
being transported to Rivermouth to school, 
and possibly will forgive me for kicking over 
little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting 
myself, when my father announced his deter- 
mination to me. As for kicking little Sam — 
I always did that, more or less gently, when 
anything went wrong with me. 

My father was greatly perplexed and troubled 
by this unusually violent outbreak, and espe- 
cially by the real consternation which he saw 
written in every line of my countenance. As 
little black Sam picked himself up, my father 
took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully 
to the library. 


IO THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

I can see him now as he leaned back in the 
bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared 
strangely agitated on learning the nature of 
my objections to going North, and proceeded 
at once to knock down all my pine-log houses, 
and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I 
had populated the greater portion of the East- 
ern and Middle States. 

“ Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain 
with such silly stories ? ” asked my father, 
wiping the tears from his eyes. 

“ Aunt Chloe, sir ; she told me.” 

“And you really thought your grandfather 
wore a blanket embroidered with beads, and 
ornamented his leggings with the scalps of his 
enemies ? ” 

“ Well, sir, I did n’t think that exactly.” 

“Didn’t think that exactly? Tom, you 
will be the death of me.” 

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, 
when he looked up, he seemed to have been 
suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, 
though I did not clearly understand what I had 
said or done to cause him to feel so badly. 
Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it 
even possible that Grandfather Nutter was an 
Indian warrior. 

My father devoted that evening and several 
subsequent evenings to giving me a clear and 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY n 

succinct account of New England ; its early 
struggles, its progress, and its present condi- 
tion — faint and confused glimmerings of all 
which I had obtained at school, where history 
had never been a favorite pursuit of mine. 

I was no longer unwilling to go North ; on 
the contrary, the proposed journey to a new 
world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I 
promised myself all sorts of fun and adventures, 
though I was not entirely at rest in my mind 
touching the savages, and secretly resolved to 
go on board the ship — the journey was to be 
made by sea — with a certain little brass pistol 
in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty 
with the tribes when we landed at Boston. 

I could not get the Indian out of my head. 
Only a short time previously the Cherokees — 
or was it the Camanches ? — had been removed 
from their hunting-grounds in Arkansas ; and 
in the wilds of the Southwest the red men were 
still a source of terror to the Border settlers. 
“ Trouble with the Indians” was the staple 
news from Florida published in the New 
Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing 
of travellers being attacked and murdered in 
the interior of that State. If these things were 
done in Florida, why not in Massachusetts ? 

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was 
eager to be off. My impatience was increased 


12 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


by the fact that my father had purchased for 
me a fine little mustang pony, and shipped it to 
Rivermouth a fortnight previous to the date set 
for our own departure — for both my parents 
were to accompany me. The pony (which 
nearly kicked me out of bed one night in a 
dream), and my father’s promise that he and 
my mother would come to Rivermouth every 
other summer, completely resigned me to the 
situation. The pony’s name was Gitana , which 
is the Spanish for gypsy ; so I always called 
her — she was a lady pony — Gypsy. 

At last the time came to leave the vine-cov- 
ered mansion among the orange-trees, to say 
good-by to little black Sam (I am convinced he 
was heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part 
with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion 
of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and 
then buried her face in the bright bandanna 
turban which she had mounted that morning 
in honor of our departure. 

I fancy them standing by the open garden 
gate ; the tears are rolling down Aunt Chloe’s 
cheeks ; Sam’s six front teeth are glistening 
like pearls ; I wave my hand to him manfully, 
then I call out “ good-by ” in a muffled voice 
to Aunt Chloe ; they and the old home fade 
away. I am never to see them again ! 


CHAPTER III 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 

I do not remember much about the voyage 
to Boston, for after the first few hours at sea 
I was dreadfully unwell. 

The name of our ship was the “A No. i, 
fast-sailing packet Typhoon.” I learned after- 
wards that she sailed fast only in the news- 
paper advertisements. My father owned one 
quarter of the Typhoon, and that is why we 
happened to go in her. I tried to guess which 
quarter of the ship he owned, and finally con- 
cluded it must be the hind quarter — the cabin, 
in which we had the cosiest of staterooms, with 
one round window in the roof, and two shelves 
or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in. 

There was a good deal of confusion on deck 
while we were getting under way. The captain 
shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay 
any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, 
and grew so red in the face that he reminded 
me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted 
candle inside. He swore right and left at the 


14 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


sailors without the slightest regard for their 
feelings. They did n’t mind it a bit, however, 
but went on singing — 

“ Heave ho ! 

With the rum below, 

And hurrah for the Spanish Main O ! ” 

I will not be positive about “ the Spanish 
Main,” but it was hurrah for something O. I 
considered them very jolly fellows, and so in- 
deed they were. One weather-beaten tar in 
particular struck my fancy — a thick-set, jovial 
man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling 
blue eyes and a fringe of gray hair circling his 
head like a crown. As he took off his tarpau- 
lin I observed that the top of his head was 
quite smooth and flat, as if somebody had sat 
down on him when he was very young. 

There was something noticeably hearty in 
this man’s bronzed face, a heartiness that 
seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neck- 
erchief. But what completely won my good 
will was a picture of enviable loveliness painted 
on his left arm. It was the head of a woman 
with the body of a fish. Her flowing hair was 
of vivid green, and she held a pink comb in one 
hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I 
determined to know that man. I think I would 
have given my brass pistol to have had such a 
picture painted on my arm. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 15 

While I stood admiring this work of art, a 
fat, wheezy steam-tug, with the word AJAX in 
staring black letters on the paddle-box, came 
puffing up alongside the Typhoon. She was 
ridiculously small and conceited, compared 
with our stately ship. I speculated as to what 
she was going to do. In a few minutes we 
were lashed to the little monster, which gave a 
snort and a shriek, and began backing us out 
from the levee (wharf) with the greatest ease. 

I once saw an ant running away with a piece 
of -cheese eight or ten times larger than itself. 
I could not help thinking of it, when I found 
the chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the 
Typhoon out into the Mississippi River. 

In the middle of the stream we swung round, 
the current caught us, and away we flew like a 
great winged bird. Only it did not seem as if 
we were moving. The shore, with the count- 
less steamboats, the tangled rigging of the 
ships, and the long lines of warehouses, ap- 
peared to be gliding away from us. 

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter- 
deck and watch all this. Before long there 
was nothing to be seen on either side but 
stretches of low, swampy land, covered with 
stunted cypress-trees, from which drooped deli- 
cate streamers of Spanish moss — a fine place 
for alligators and Congo snakes. Here and 


x6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here 
and there a snag lifted its nose out of the water 
like a shark. 

“This is your last chance to see the city, 
Tom,” said my father, as we swept round a 
bend of the river. 

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just 
a colorless mass of something in the distance, 
and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon 
which the sun shimmered for a moment, was 
no bigger than the top of old Aunt Chloe’s 
thimble. 

What do I remember next ? the gray sky 
and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf. The 
steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers 
and gone panting away with a derisive scream, 
as much as to say, “ I ’ve done my duty, now 
look out for yourself, old Typhoon ! ” 

The ship seemed quite proud of being left 
to take care of herself, and, with her huge 
white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain 
turkey. I had been standing by my father 
near the wheel-house all this while, observ- 
ing things with that nicety of perception which 
belongs only to children ; but now the dew 
began falling, and we went below to have 
supper. 

The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of 
cold chicken looked very nice ; yet somehow 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


17 


I had no appetite. There was a general smell 
of tar about everything. Then the ship gave 
sudden lurches that made it a matter of uncer- 
tainty whether one was going to put his fork 
to his mouth or into his eye. The tumblers 
and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over the table, 
kept clinking and clinking ; and the cabin 
lamp, suspended by four gilt chains from the 
ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the 
floor seemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink 
under one’s feet like a feather-bed. 

There were not more than a dozen passen- 
gers on board, including ourselves ; and all of 
these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman 
— a retired sea-captain — disappeared into 
their staterooms at an early hour of the even- 
ing. 

After supper was cleared away, my father 
and the elderly gentleman, whose name was 
Captain Truck, played at checkers ; and I 
amused myself for a while by watching the 
trouble they had in keeping the men in their 
proper places. Just at the most exciting point 
of the game, the ship would careen, and down 
would go the white checkers pell-mell among 
the black. Then my father laughed, but Cap- 
tain Truck would grow very angry, and vow 
that he would have won the game in a move or 
two more, if the confounded old chicken-coop 


18 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

— that ’s what he called the ship — had n’t 
lurched. 

“ I — I think I will go to bed now, please,” 
I said, laying my hand on my father’s knee, 
and feeling exceedingly queer. 

It was high time, for the Typhoon was 
plunging about in the most alarming fashion. 
I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, 
where I felt a trifle more easy at first. My 
clothes were placed on a narrow shelf at my 
feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know 
that my pistol was so handy, for I made no 
doubt we should fall in with pirates before 
many hours. This is the last thing I remem- 
ber with any distinctness. At midnight, as I 
was afterwards told, we were struck by a gale 
which never left us until we came in sight of 
the Massachusetts coast. 

For days and days I had no sensible idea of 
what was going on around me. That we were 
being hurled somewhere upside down, and that 
I did not like it, was about all I knew. I have, 
indeed, a vague impression that my father 
used to climb up to the berth and call me his 
“ Ancient Mariner,” bidding me cheer up. But 
the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up, 
if I recollect rightly; and I do not believe 
that venerable navigator would have cared 
much if it had been announced to him, through 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


19 


a speaking-trumpet, that “a low, black, sus- 
picious craft, with raking masts, was rapidly 
bearing down upon us ! ” 

In fact, one morning, I thought that such 
was the case, for bang ! went the big cannon 
I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we 
came on board, and which had suggested to me 
the idea of pirates. Bang ! went the gun again 
in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to 
get at my trousers -pocket. But the Typhoon 
was only saluting Cape Cod — the first land 
sighted by vessels approaching the coast from 
a southerly direction. 

The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea- 
sickness passed away as quickly as it came. I 
was all right now, “ only a little shaky in my 
timbers and a little blue about the gills,” as 
Captain Truck remarked to my mother, who, 
like myself, had been confined to the stateroom 
during the passage. 

At Cape Cod the wind parted company with 
us without saying as much as “ Excuse me ; ” 
so we were nearly two days in making the run 
which in favorable weather is usually accom- 
plished in seven hours. That ’s what the pilot 
said. 

I was able to go about the ship now, and I 
lost no time in cultivating the acquaintance of 
the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm. 


20 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


I found him in the forecastle — a sort of cellar 
in the front part of the vessel. He was an 
agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we 
became the best of friends in five minutes. 

He had been all over the world two or three 
times, and knew no end of stories. According 
to his own account, he must have been ship- 
wrecked at least twice a year ever since his 
birth. He had served under Decatur when 
that gallant officer peppered the Algerines and 
made them promise not to sell their prisoners 
of war into slavery ; he had worked a gun at 
the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican 
war, and he had been on Alexander Selkirk’s 
Island more than once. There were very few 
things he had not done in a seafaring way. 

“ I suppose, sir,” I remarked, “ that your 
name is n’t Typhoon ? ” 

“Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name’s Benja- 
min Watson, of Nantucket. But I ’m a true 
blue Typhooner,” he added, which increased 
my respect for him ; I do not know why, and I 
did not know then whether Typhoon was the 
name of a vegetable or a profession. 

Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I 
disclosed to him that my name was Tom Bailey, 
upon which he said he was very glad to hear it. 

When we got more intimate, I discovered 
that Sailor Ben, as he wished me to call him. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


21 


was a perfect walking picture-book. He had 
two anchors, a star, and a frigate in full sail on 
his right arm ; a pair of lovely blue hands 
clasped on his breast, and I have no doubt that 
other parts of his body were illustrated in the 
same agreeable manner. I imagine he was 
fond of drawings, and took this means of 
gratifying his artistic taste. It was certainly 
very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio 
might be displaced, or dropped overboard ; but 
Sailor Ben had his pictures wherever he went, 
just as that eminent person in the poem 

“ With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes ” 

was accompanied by music on all occasions. 

The two hands on his breast, he informed 
me, were a tribute to the memory of a dead 
messmate from whom he had parted years ago 
— and surely a more touching tribute was 
never engraved on a tombstone. This caused 
me to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, 
and I told him I should take it as a great favor 
indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a 
black hand on my chest. He said the colors 
were pricked into the skin with needles, and 
that the operation was somewhat painful. I 
assured him, in an off-hand manner, that I 
didn’t mind pain, and begged him to set to 
work at once. 


22 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably 
not a little vain of his skill, took me into the 
forecastle, and was on the point of complying 
with my request, when my father happened to 
look down the gangway — a circumstance that 
rather interfered with the decorative art. 

I did pot have another opportunity of confer- 
ring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morn- 
ing, bright and early, we came in sight of the 
cupola of the Boston State House. 


CHAPTER IV 


RIVERMOUTH 

It was a beautiful May morning when the 
Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf. Whether 
the Indians were not early risers, or whether 
they were away just then on a war-path, I could 
not determine ; but they did not appear in any 
great force — in fact, did not appear at all. 

In the remarkable geography which I never 
hurt myself with studying at New Orleans was 
a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim 
Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in 
rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching 
the savages ; the savages, in no coats or hats 
to speak of, are evidently undecided whether 
to shake hands with the Pilgrim Fathers or to 
make one grand rush and scalp the entire party. 
Now this scene had so stamped itself on my 
mind that, in spite of all my father had said, I 
was prepared for some such greeting from the 
aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to 
have my expectations unfulfilled. By the way, 
speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used 


24 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


to wonder why there was no mention made of 
the Pilgrim Mothers. 

While our trunks were being hoisted from 
the hold of the ship, I mounted on the roof of 
the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. 
As we came up the harbor, I had noticed that 
the houses were huddled together on an im- 
mense hill, at the top of which was a large 
building, the State House, towering proudly 
above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen sur- 
rounded by her brood of many-colored chickens. 
A closer inspection did not impress me very 
favorably. The city was not nearly so impos- 
ing as New Orleans, which stretches out for 
miles and miles, in the shape of a crescent, 
along the banks of the majestic river. 

I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of 
houses, rising above one another in irregular 
tiers, and was glad my father did not propose 
to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over 
the rail in this mood, a measly-looking little 
boy with no shoes said that if I would come 
down on the wharf he would lick me for two 
cents — not an exorbitant price. But I did not 
go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared 
at him. This, as I was rejoiced to observe, so 
exasperated him that he stood on his head on 
a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself. 

The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


25 


After a late breakfast on board the Typhoon, 
our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, 
and ourselves stowed away in a coach, which 
must have turned at least one hundred corners 
before it set us down at the railroad station. 

In less time than it takes to tell it, we were 
shooting across the country at a fearful rate — 
now clattering over a bridge, now screaming 
through a tunnel ; here we cut a flourishing vil- 
lage in two, like a knife, and here we dived into 
the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes we 
glided along the edge of the ocean, and could 
see the sails of ships twinkling like bits of sil- 
ver against the horizon ; sometimes we dashed 
across rocky pasture -lands where stupid-eyed 
cattle were loafing. It was fun to scare the 
lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups 
under the newly budded trees near the railroad 
track. 

We did not pause at any of the little brown 
stations on the route (they looked just like 
overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at 
every one of them a man popped out as if he 
were worked by machinery, and waved a red 
flag, and appeared as though he would like to 
have us stop. But we were an express train, 
and made no stoppages, excepting once or 
twice to give the engine a drink. 

It is strange how the memory clings to some 


26 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


things. It is over twenty years since I took 
that first ride to Rivermouth, and yet, oddly 
enough, I remember as if it were yesterday 
that, as we passed slowly through the village of 
Hampton, we saw two boys fighting behind a 
red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, 
who looked as if he had begun to unravel, bark- 
ing himself all up into a knot with excitement. 
We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle — 
long enough, however, to see that the combat- 
ants were equally matched and very much in 
earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times 
since I have speculated as to which boy got 
licked. May be both the small rascals are 
dead now (not in consequence of the set-to, let 
us hope), or may be they are married, and have 
pugnacious urchins of their own ; yet to this 
day I sometimes find myself wondering how 
that fight turned out. 

We had been riding perhaps two hours and 
a half, when we shot by a tall factory with a 
chimney resembling a church steeple ; then 
the locomotive gave a scream, the engineer 
rang his bell, and we plunged into the twilight 
of- a long wooden building, open at both ends. 
Here we stopped, and the conductor, thrusting 
his head in at the car door, cried out, “ Passen- 
gers for Rivermouth ! ” 

At last we had reached our journey’s end. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


2 7 


On the platform my father shook hands with a 
straight, brisk old gentleman, whose face was 
very serene and rosy. He had on a white hat 
and a long swallow-tailed coat, the collar of 
which came clear up above his ears. He did 
not look unlike a Pilgrim Father. This, of 
course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose 
house I was born. My mother kissed him a 
great many times ; and I was glad to see him 
myself, though I naturally did not feel very 
intimate with a person whom I had not seen 
since I was eighteen months old. 

While we were getting into the double- 
seated wagon which Grandfather Nutter had 
provided, I took the opportunity of asking after 
the health of the pony. The pony had arrived 
all right ten days before, and was in the stable 
at home, quite anxious to see me. 

As we drove through the quiet old town, I 
thought Rivermouth the prettiest place in the 
world ; and I think so still. The streets are 
long and wide, shaded by gigantic American 
elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing 
here and there, span the avenue with arches 
graceful enough to be the handiwork of fairies. 
Many of the houses have small flower-gardens 
in front, gay in the season with china asters, 
and are substantially built, with massive chim- 
ney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful 


28 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


river goes rippling by the town, and, after 
turning and twisting among a lot of tiny 
islands, empties itself into the sea. 

The harbor is so fine that the largest ships 
can sail directly up to the wharves and drop 
anchor. Only they do not. Years ago it was 
a famous seaport. Princely fortunes were 
made in the West India trade; and in 1812, 
when we were at war with Great Britain, any 
number of privateers were fitted out at River- 
mouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of 
the enemy. Certain persons grew suddenly and 
mysteriously rich. A great many of “ the first 
families ” of to-day do not care to trace their 
pedigree back to the time when their grand- 
sires owned shares in the Matilda Jane, twenty- 
four guns. 

Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Com- 
merce drifted into other ports. The phantom 
fleet sailed off one day, and never came back 
again. The crazy old warehouses are empty ; 
and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles 
of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine 
lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor 
that haunts the place — the ghost of the old 
dead West India trade. 

During our ride from the station, I was 
struck, of course, only by the general neatness 
of the houses and the beauty of the elm-trees 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


29 


lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now 
as I came to know it afterwards. 

Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my 
day there existed a tradition among the boys 
that it was here that Christopher Columbus 
made his first landing on this continent. I re- 
member having the exact spot pointed out to 
me by Pepper Whitcomb. One thing is cer- 
tain, Captain John Smith, who afterwards, ac- 
cording to their legend, married Pocahontas — 
whereby he got Powhatan for a father-in-law 
— explored the river in 1614, and was much 
charmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which 
at that time was covered with wild strawberry- 
vines. 

Rivermouth figures prominently in all the 
colonial histories. Every other house in the 
place has its tradition more or less grim and 
entertaining. If ghosts could flourish any- 
where, there are certain streets in Rivermouth 
that would be full of them. I do not know of 
a town with so many old houses. Let us lin- 
ger, for a moment, in front of the one which 
the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point 
out to the curious stranger. 

It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel 
roof and deep-set window-frames. Over the 
windows and doors there used to be heavy 
carvings — oak-leaves and acorns, and angels’ 


30 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


heads with wings spreading from the ears, oddly 
jumbled together ; but these ornaments and 
other outward signs of grandeur have long 
since disappeared. A peculiar interest attaches 
itself to this house, not because of its age, 
for it has not been standing quite a century ; 
nor on account of its architecture, which is not 
striking — but because of the illustrious men 
who at various periods have occupied its spa- 
cious chambers. 

In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the 
left side of the entrance stood a high post, from 
which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. 
The landlord was a stanch loyalist — that is to 
say, he believed in the king, and when the 
overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the 
British yoke the adherents of the Crown held 
private meetings in one of the back rooms of 
the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they 
were called ; and one day they made an attack 
on the Earl of Halifax, tore down the sign- 
board, broke in the window-sashes, and gave 
the landlord hardly time to make himself invis- 
ible over a fence in the rear. 

For several months the shattered tavern re- 
mained deserted. At last the exiled innkeeper, 
on promising to do better, was allowed to 
return ; a new sign, bearing the name of Wil- 
liam Pitt, the friend of America, swung proudly 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


3i 


from the door-post, and the patriots were 
appeased. Here it was that the mail-coach 
from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set 
down its load of travellers and gossip. For 
some of the details in this sketch, I am in- 
debted to a recently published chronicle of 
those times. 

It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the 
harbor of Rivermouth, and eight of the princi- 
pal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with 
gold lace, have taken up their quarters at the 
sign of the William Pitt. Who is this young 
and handsome officer now entering the door of 
the tavern? It is no less a personage than 
the Marquis de Lafayette, who has come all 
the way from Providence to visit the French 
gentlemen boarding there. What a gallant- 
looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and 
coal-black hair ! Forty years later he visited 
the spot again ; his locks were gray and his 
step was feeble, but his heart held its young 
love for Liberty. 

Who is this finely dressed traveller alighting 
from his coach-and-four, attended by servants 
in livery ? Do you know that sounding name, 
written in big valorous letters on the Declara- 
tion of Independence — written as if by the 
hand of a giant ? Can you not see it now ? — 
John Hancock. This is he. 


32 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Three young men, with their valet, are stand- 
ing on the doorstep of the William Pitt, bowing 
politely, and inquiring in the most courteous 
terms in the world if they can be accommo- 
dated. It is the time of the French Revolu- 
tion, and these are three sons of the Duke of 
Orleans — Louis Philippe and his two brothers. 
Louis Philippe never forgot his visit to River- 
mouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated 
on the throne of France, he asked an Ameri- 
can lady, who chanced to be at his court, if the 
pleasant old mansion was still standing. 

But a greater and a better man than the king 
of the French has honored this roof. Here, in 
1789, came George Washington, the President 
of the United States, to pay his final compli- 
mentary visit to the State dignitaries. The 
wainscoted chamber where he slept and the 
dining-hall where he entertained his guests 
have a certain dignity and sanctity which even 
the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy. 

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, 
an ancient lady, Dame Jocelyn by name, lived 
in one of the upper rooms of this notable build- 
ing. She was a dashing young belle at the 
time of Washington’s first visit to the town, 
and must have been exceedingly coquettish 
and pretty, judging from a certain portrait 
on ivory still in the possession of the family. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


33 


According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washing- 
ton flirted with her just a little bit — in what 
a stately and highly finished manner can be 
imagined. 

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed 
frame hanging over the mantelpiece in this 
room. The glass was cracked and the quick- 
silver rubbed off or discolored in many places. 
When it reflected your face, you had the singu- 
lar pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It 
gave your features the appearance of having 
been run through a mince-meat machine. But 
what rendered the looking-glass a thing of 
enchantment to me was a faded green feather, 
tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the 
top of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This 
feather Washington took from the plume of 
his three-cornered hat, and presented with his 
own hand to the worshipful Mistress Jocelyn 
the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wish I 
could describe the mincing genteel air, and the 
ill-concealed self-complacency, with which the 
dear old lady related the incident. 

Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed 
up the rickety staircase to that dingy room, 
which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to 
sit on a stiff -backed chair and listen for hours 
together to Dame Jocelyn’s stories of the olden 
time. How she would prattle ! She was bed- 


34 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ridden — poor creature ! — and had not been 
out of the chamber for fourteen years. Mean- 
while the world had shot ahead of Dame Joce- 
lyn. The changes that had taken place under 
her very nose were unknown to this faded, 
crooning old gentlewoman, whom the eigh- 
teenth century had neglected to take away with 
the rest of its odd traps. She had no patience 
with new-fangled notions. The old ways and 
the old times were good enough for her. She 
had never seen a steam-engine, though she had 
heard “ the dratted thing ” screech in the dis- 
tance. In her day, when gentlefolk travelled, 
they went in their own coaches. She did not 
see how respectable persons could bring them- 
selves down to “ riding in a car with rag-tag 
and bobtail and Lord-knows-who.” Poor old 
aristocrat ! the landlord charged her no rent 
for the room, and the neighbors took turns in 
supplying her with meals. Towards the closa 
of her life — she lived to be ninety-nine — she 
grew very fretful and capricious about her 
food. If she did not chance to fancy what 
was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending 
it back to the giver with “ Miss Jocelyn’s re- 
spectful compliments.” 

But I have been gossiping too long — and 
yet not too long if I have impressed upon the 
reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


35 


town it was to which I had come to spend the 
next three or four years of my boyhood. 

A drive of twenty minutes from the station 
brought us to the doorstep of Grandfather Nut- 
ter’s house. What kind of house it was, and 
what sort of persons lived in it, shall be told in 
another chapter. 


CHAPTER V 


THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER FAMILY 

The Nutter House — all the more prominent 
dwellings in Rivermouth are named after some- 
body ; for instance, there is the Walford House, 
the Venner House, the Trefethen House, etc., 
though it by no means follows that they are 
inhabited by the persons whose names they bear 
— the Nutter House, to resume, has been in 
our family nearly a hundred years, and is an 
honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I be- 
lieve), supposing durability to be a merit. If 
our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew his 
trade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such 
timber and such workmanship do not often 
come together in houses built nowadays. 

Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide 
hall running through the middle. At your right 
hand, as you enter, stands a tall black mahogany 
clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up 
on end. On each side of the hall are doors 
(whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not 
turn very easily), opening into large rooms 



HALL 






♦ 



THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


37 


wainscoted and rich in wood-carvings about 
the mantelpieces and cornices. The walls are 
covered with pictured paper, representing land- 
scapes and sea-views. In the parlor, for exam- 
ple, this enlivening figure is repeated all over 
the room : A group of English peasants, wear- 
ing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawn that 
abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon 
which stands a flabby fisherman (nationality 
unknown), quietly hauling in what appears to 
be a small whale, and totally regardless of the 
dreadful naval combat going on just beyond 
the end of his fishing-rod. On the other side 
of the ships is the mainland again, with the 
same peasants dancing. Our ancestors were 
very worthy people, but their wall-papers were 
abominable. 

There are neither grates nor stoves in these 
quaint chambers, but splendid open chimney- 
places, with room enough for the corpulent 
backlog to turn over comfortably on the pol- 
ished andirons. A wide staircase leads from 
the hall to the second story, which is arranged 
much like the first. Over this is the garret. 
I need not tell a New England boy what a 
museum of curiosities is the garret of a well- 
regulated New England house of fifty or sixty 
years’ standing. Here meet together, as if by 
some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken- 


38 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

down chairs of the household, all the spavined 
tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated- 
looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that 
have retired from business, “ weary with the 
march of life.” The pots, the pans, the trunks, 
the bottles — who may hope to make an inven- 
tory of the numberless odds and ends collected 
in this bewildering lumber-room ? But what a 
place it is to sit of an afternoon with the rain 
pattering on the roof ! what a place in which 
to read Gulliver’s Travels, or the famous ad- 
ventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini ! 

My grandfather’s house stood a little back 
from the main street, in the shadow of two 
handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would 
dash themselves against the gables whenever 
the wind blew hard. In the rear was a plea- 
sant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an 
acre, full of plum-trees and gooseberry-bushes. 
These trees were old settlers, and are all dead 
now, excepting one, which bears a purple plum 
as big as an egg. This tree, as I remark, is 
still standing, and a more beautiful tree to 
tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the 
northwestern corner of the garden were the 
stables and carriage-house, opening upon a nar- 
row lane. You may imagine that I made an 
early visit to that locality to inspect Gypsy. 
Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during 



THE GARDEN 















THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


39 


the first day of my arrival. At the twenty- 
fourth visit she trod on my foot rather heavily, 
as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing 
out my welcome. She was a knowing little 
pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say 
of her in the course of these pages. 

Gypsy’s quarters were all that could be 
wished, but nothing among my new surround- 
ings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey 
sleeping apartment that had been prepared for 
myself. It was the hall room over the front 
door. 

I had never before had a chamber all to 
myself, and this one, about twice the size of 
our stateroom on board the Typhoon, was a 
marvel of neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz 
curtains hung at the window, and a patch quilt 
of more colors than were in Joseph’s coat cov- 
ered the little truckle-bed. The pattern of the 
wall-paper left nothing to be desired in that 
line. On a gray background were small bunches 
of leaves, unlike any that ever grew in this 
world ; and on every other bunch perched a 
yellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it 
had just recovered from a severe attack of the 
small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did 
not detract from my admiration of each one. 
There were two hundred and sixty-eight of 
these birds in all, not counting those split in 


40 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


two where the paper was badly joined. I 
counted them once when I was laid up with a 
fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately 
dreamed that the whole flock suddenly took 
wing and flew out of the window. From that 
time I was never able to regard them as merely 
inanimate objects. 

A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved 
mahogany drawers, a looking-glass in a filigreed 
frame, and a high-backed chair studded with 
brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furni- 
ture. Over the head of the bed were two oak 
shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books — 
among which were Theodore, or The Peruvi- 
ans ; Robinson Crusoe ; an odd volume of Tris- 
tram Shandy ; Baxter’s Saint’s Rest, and a fine 
English edition of the Arabian Nights, with six 
hundred wood-cuts by Harvey. 

Shall I ever forget the hour when I first 
overhauled these books ? I do not allude espe- 
cially to Baxter’s Saint’s Rest, which is far 
from being a lively work for the young, but to 
the Arabian Nights, and particularly to Robin- 
son Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers’ 
ends then has not run out yet. Many a time 
did I steal up to this nest of a room, and, tak- 
ing the dog’s-eared volume from its shelf, glide 
off into an enchanted realm, where there were 
no lessons to get and no boys to smash my 



TOM BAILEY’S ROOM 






















THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


4 * 


kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subse- 
quently unearthed another motley collection 
of novels and romances, embracing the adven- 
tures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don 
Quixote, Gil Bias, and Charlotte Temple — all 
of which I fed upon like a bookworm. 

I never come across a copy of any of those 
works without feeling a certain tenderness for 
the yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean 
above the magic pages hour after hour, reli- 
giously believing every word he read, and no 
more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, 
or the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, 
than he did the existence of his own grand- 
father. 

Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung 
a single-barrelled shot-gun — placed there by 
Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boy 
loved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trig- 
ger of the gun had been accidentally twisted 
off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous 
weapon that could be placed in the hands of 
youth. In this maimed condition its bump 
of destructiveness was much less than that of 
my small brass pocket-pistol, which I at once 
proceeded to suspend from one of the nails 
supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries 
concerning the red men had been entirely 
dispelled. 


42 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Having introduced the reader to the Nutter 
House, a presentation to the Nutter family 
naturally follows. The family consisted of my 
grandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; 
and Kitty Collins, the maid-of-all-work. 

Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old 
gentleman, as straight and as bald as an arrow. 
He had been a sailor in early life ; that is to 
say, at the age of ten years he fled from the 
multiplication-table, and ran away to sea. A 
single voyage satisfied him. There was but 
one of our family who did not run away to sea, 
and this one died at his birth. My grandfather 
had also been a soldier — a captain of militia 
in 1812. If I owe the British nation anything, 
I owe thanks to that particular British soldier 
who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of 
Captain Nutter’s leg, causing that noble war- 
rior a slight permanent limp, but offsetting the 
injury by furnishing him with material for a 
story which the old gentleman was never weary 
of telling and I never weary of listening to. 
The story, in brief, was as follows — 

At the breaking out of the war, an English 
frigate lay for several days off the coast near 
Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the har- 
bor, and a regiment of minute-men, scattered 
at various points alongshore, stood ready to 
repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


43 


a landing. Captain Nutter had charge of a 
slight earthwork just outside the mouth of the 
river. Late one thick night the sound of oars 
was heard ; the sentinel tried to fire off his 
gun at half-cock, and could not, when Captain 
Nutter sprang upon the parapet in the pitch 
darkness, and shouted, “ Boat ahoy ! ” A mus- 
ket-shot immediately embedded itself in the 
calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the 
fort, and the boat, which had probably come in 
search of water, pulled back to the frigate. 

This was my grandfather’s only exploit dur- 
ing the war. That his prompt and bold con- 
duct was instrumental in teaching the enemy 
the hopelessness of attempting to conquer such 
a people was among the firm beliefs of my 
boyhood. 

At the time I came to Rivermouth my 
grandfather had retired from active pursuits, 
and was living at ease on his money, invested 
principally in shipping. He had been a wid- 
ower many years ; a maiden sister, the afore- 
said Miss Abigail, managing his household. 
Miss Abigail also managed her brother, and 
her brother’s servant, and the visitor at her 
brother’s gate — not in a tyrannical spirit, but 
from a philanthropic desire to be useful to 
everybody. In person she was tall and angu- 
lar ; she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray 


44 


THE STORY OF A BAD BO'V 


eyebrows, and generally wore a gray dress. 
Her strongest weak point was a belief in the 
efficacy of “ hot-drops ” as a cure for all known 
diseases. 

If there were ever two persons who seemed 
to dislike each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty 
Collins were those persons. If ever two per- 
sons really loved each other, Miss Abigail and 
Kitty Collins were those persons also. They 
were always either skirmishing or having a 
cup of tea lovingly together. 

Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so 
was Kitty ; and in the course of their disagree- 
ments each let me into the private history of 
the other. 

According to Kitty, it was not originally my 
grandfather’s intention to have Miss Abigail at 
the head of his domestic establishment. She 
had swooped down on him (Kitty’s own words), 
with a band-box in one hand and a faded blue 
cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. 
Clad in this singular garb — I do not remem- 
ber that Kitty alluded to any additional pecir 
liarity of dress — Miss Abigail had made her 
appearance at the door of the Nutter House 
on the morning of my grandmother’s funeral. 
The small amount of baggage which the lady 
brought with her would have led the superficial 
observer to infer that Miss Abigail’s visit was 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


45 


limited to a few days. I run ahead of my 
story in saying she remained seventeen years ! 
How much longer she would have remained 
can never be definitely known now, as she 
died at the expiration of that period. 

Whether or not my grandfather was quite 
pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his 
family is a problem. He was very kind always 
to Miss Abigail, and seldom opposed her ; 
though I think she must have tried his patience 
sometimes, especially when she interfered with 
Kitty. 

Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she 
preferred to be called, was descended in a 
direct line from an extensive family of kings 
who formerly ruled over Ireland. In conse- 
quence of various calamities, among which the 
failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, 
Miss Kitty Collins, in company with several 
hundred of her countrymen and countrywomen 
— also descended from kings — came over to 
America in an emigrant ship, in the year 
eighteen hundred and something. 

I do not know what freak of fortune caused 
the royal exile to turn up at Rivermouth ; but 
turn up she did, a few months after arriving 
in this country, and was hired by my grand- 
mother to do “ general housework ” for the 
modest sum of four shillings and sixpence a 
week. 


46 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Kitty had been living about seven years in 
my grandfather’s family when she unburdened 
her heart of a secret which had been weighing 
upon it all that time. It may be said of per- 
sons, as it is said of nations, " Happy are they 
that have no history.” Kitty had a history, 
and a pathetic one, I think. 

On board the emigrant ship that brought 
her to America, she became acquainted with a 
sailor, who, being touched by Kitty’s forlorn 
condition, was very good to her. Long before 
the end of the voyage, which had been tedious 
and perilous, she was heart-broken at the 
thought of separating from her kindly pro- 
tector ; but they were not to part just yet, for 
the sailor returned Kitty’s affection, and the 
two were married on their arrival at port. 
Kitty’s husband — she would never mention 
his name, but kept it locked in her bosom like 
some precious relic — had a considerable sum 
of money when the crew were paid off ; and 
the young couple — for Kitty was young then 
— lived very happily in a lodging-house on 
South Street, near the docks. This was in 
New York. 

The days flew by like hours, and the stocking 
in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk 
and shrunk, until at last there were only three 
or four dollars left in the toe of it. Then 





THE GARRET 


























/ 








































N 





t 




THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


47 


Kitty was troubled ; for she knew her sailor 
would have to go to sea again unless he could 
get employment on shore. This he endea- 
vored to do, but not with much success. One 
morning as usual he kissed her good-day, and 
set out in search of work. 

“ Kissed me good-by, and called me his little 
Irish lass,” sobbed Kitty, telling the story — 
“ kissed me good-by, and, Heaven help me ! I 
niver set oi on him nor on the likes of him 
again.” 

He never came back. Day after day dragged 
on, night after night, and then the weary 
weeks. What had become of him ? Had he 
been murdered ? had he fallen into the docks ? 
had he — deserted her ? No ! she could not 
believe that ; he was too brave and tender and 
true. She could not believe that. He was 
dead, dead, or he would come back to her. 

Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house 
t rued Kitty into the streets, now that “her 
man ” was gone, and the payment of the rent 
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The 
family she lived with shortly moved to Boston, 
and she accompanied them ; then they went 
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. 
Somehow she drifted to Rivermouth, and for 
seven long years never gave speech to her 
sorrow, until the kindness of strangers, who 


48 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

had become friends to her, unsealed the heroic 
lips. 

Kitty’s story, you may be sure, made my 
grandparents treat her more kindly than ever. 
In time she grew to be regarded less as a 
servant than as a friend in the home circle, 
sharing its joys and sorrows — a faithful nurse, 
a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. 
I fancy I hear her singing over her work in 
the kitchen, pausing from time to time to 
make some witty reply to Miss Abigail — for 
Kitty, like all her race, had a vein of uncon- 
scious humor. Her bright honest face comes 
to me out from the past, the light and life of 
the Nutter House when I was a boy at River- 
mouth. 


CHAPTER VI 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 

The first shadow that fell upon me in my 
new home was caused by the return of my 
parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut 
short by business which required my father’s 
presence in Natchez, where he was establishing 
a branch of the banking-house. When they 
had gone, a sense of loneliness such as I had 
never dreamed of filled my young breast. I 
crept away to the stable, and, throwing my 
arms about Gypsy’s neck, sobbed aloud. She 
too had come from the sunny South, and was 
now a stranger in a strange land. 

The little mare seemed to realize our situa- 
tion, and gave me all the sympathy I could ask, 
repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face 
and lapping up my salt tears with evident 
relish. 

When night came, I felt still more lonesome. 
My grandfather sat in his armchair the greater 
part of the evening, reading the Rivermouth 
Barnacle, the local newspaper. There was no 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


So 

gas in those days, and the Captain read by the 
aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in 
one hand. I observed that he had a habit of 
dropping off into a doze every three or four 
minutes, and I forgot my homesickness at in- 
tervals in watching him. Two or three times, 
to my vast amusement, he scorched the edges 
of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp ; 
and at about half past eight o’clock I had the 
satisfaction — I am sorry to confess it was a 
satisfaction — of seeing the Rivermouth Bar- 
nacle in flames. 

My grandfather leisurely extinguished the 
fire with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat 
near a law table, knitting by the light of an 
astral lamp, did not even look up. She was 
quite used to this catastrophe. 

There was little or no conversation during 
the evening. In fact, I do not remember that 
any one spoke at all, excepting once, when the 
Captain remarked, in a meditative manner, that 
my parents “must have reached New York by 
this time ; ” at which supposition I nearly 
strangled myself in attempting to intercept a 
sob. 

The monotonous “click click” of Miss Abi- 
gail’s needles made me nervous after a while, 
and finally drove me out of the sitting-room 
into the kitchen, where Kitty caused me to 



THE SITTING ROOM 










THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


5i 


laugh by saying Miss Abigail thought that what 
I needed was “ a good dose of hot-drops ” — a 
remedy she was forever ready to administer in 
all emergencies. If a boy broke his leg, or lost 
his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have 
given him hot-drops. 

Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She 
told me several funny Irish stories, and de- 
scribed some of the odd persons living in the 
town ; but, in the midst of her comicalities, the 
tears would involuntarily ooze out of my eyes, 
though I was not a lad much addicted to weep- 
ing. Then Kitty would put her arms around 
me, and tell me not to mind it — that it was 
not as if I had been left alone in a foreign land 
with no one to care for me, like a poor girl 
whom she had once known. I brightened up 
before long, and told Kitty all about the Ty- 
phoon and the old seaman, whose name I tried 
in vain to recall, and was obliged to fall back 
on plain Sailor Ben. 

I was glad when ten o’clock came, the bed- 
time for young folks, and old folks too, at the 
Nutter House. Alone in the hall-chamber I 
had my cry out, once for all, moistening the pil- 
low to such an extent that I was obliged to turn 
it over to find a dry spot to go to sleep on. 

My grandfather wisely concluded to put me 
to school at once. If I had been permitted to 


52 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


go mooning about the house and stables, I 
should have kept my discontent alive for 
months. The next morning, accordingly, he 
took me by the hand, and we set forth for the 
academy, which was located at the farther end 
of the town. 

The Temple Grammar School was a two- 
story brick building, standing in the centre of 
a great square piece of land, surrounded by a 
high picket fence. There were three or four 
sickly trees, but no grass, in this enclosure, 
which had been worn smooth and hard by the 
tread of multitudinous feet. I noticed here 
and there small holes scooped in the ground, 
indicating that it was the season for marbles. 
A better playground for baseball could not 
have been devised. 

On reaching the schoolhouse door, the Cap- 
tain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw. The boy 
who answered our knock ushered us into a side 
room, and in a few minutes — during which my 
eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two 
wooden pegs — Mr. Grimshaw made his appear- 
ance. He was a slender man, with white, 
fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a 
dozen different ways at once — a habit proba- 
bly acquired from watching the boys. 

After a brief consultation, my grandfather 
patted me on the head and left me in charge of 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


53 


this gentleman, who seated himself in front of 
me and proceeded to sound the depth, or more 
properly speaking, the shallowness, of my at- 
tainments. I suspect that my historical infor- 
mation rather startled him. I recollect I gave 
him to understand that Richard III. was the 
last king of England. 

This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and 
bade me follow him. A door opened, and I 
stood in the blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned 
eyes. I was a cool hand for my age, but I 
lacked the boldness to face this battery without 
wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled 
after Mr. Grimshaw down a narrow aisle be- 
tween two rows of desks, and shyly took the 
seat pointed out to me. 

The faint buzz that had floated over the 
schoolroom at our entrance died away, and the 
interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees 
I recovered my coolness, and ventured to look 
around me. 

The owners of the forty-two caps were seated 
at small green desks like the one assigned to 
me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with 
spaces between just wide enough to prevent 
the boys whispering. A blackboard- set into 
the wall extended clear across the end of the 
room ; on a raised platform near the door stood 
the master’s table ; and directly in front of this 


54 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


was a recitation bench capable of seating fifteen 
or twenty pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed 
with dragons and winged horses, occupied a 
shelf between two windows, which were so 
high from the floor that nothing but a giraffe 
could have looked out of them. 

Having possessed myself of these details, 
I scrutinized my new acquaintances with un- 
concealed curiosity, instinctively selecting my 
friends and picking out my enemies — and in 
only two cases did I mistake my man. 

A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in 
the fourth row, shook his fist at me furtively 
several times during the morning. I had a 
presentiment I should have trouble with that 
boy some day — a presentiment subsequently 
realized. 

On my left was a chubby little fellow with 
a great many freckles (this was Pepper Whit- 
comb), who made some mysterious motions to 
me. I did not understand them, but, as they 
were clearly of a pacific nature, I winked my 
eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory, 
for he then went on with his studies. At re- 
cess he gave me the core of his apple, though 
there were several applicants for it. 

Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket 
with two rows of brass buttons, held up a 
folded paper behind his slate, intimating that 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


55 

it was intended for me. The paper was passed 
skilfully from desk to desk until it reached 
my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that 
it contained a small piece of molasses candy in 
an extremely humid state. This was certainly 
kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and has- 
tily slipped the delicacy into my mouth. In a 
second I felt my tongue grow red-hot with cay- 
enne pepper. 

My face must have assumed a comical ex- 
pression, for the boy in the olive-green jacket 
gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was 
instantly punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swal- 
lowed the fiery candy, though it brought the 
water to my eyes, and managed to look so un- 
concerned that I was the only pupil in the form 
who escaped questioning as to the cause of Mar- 
den’s misdemeanor. Marden was his name. 

Nothing else occurred that morning to inter- 
rupt the exercises, excepting that a boy in the 
reading class threw us all into convulsions by 
calling Absalom A-bol'-som — “ Abol'som, O 
my son Abol'som ! ” I laughed as loud as any 
one, but I am not so sure that I should not 
have pronounced it Abol'som myself. 

At recess several of the scholars came to 
my desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grim- 
shaw having previously introduced me to Phil 
Adams, charging him to see that I got into no 


56 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

trouble. My new acquaintances suggested that 
we should go to the playground. We were no 
sooner out of doors than the boy with the red 
hair thrust his way through the crowd and 
placed himself at my side. 

“ I say, youngster, if you ’re cornin’ to this 
school you ’ve got to toe the mark.” 

I did not see any mark to toe, and did not 
understand what he meant ; but I replied po- 
litely, that, if it was the custom of the school, 
I should be happy to toe the mark, if he would 
point it out to me. 

“ I don’t want any of your sarse,” said the 
boy, scowling. 

“ Look here, Conway ! ” cried a clear voice 
from the other side of the playground, “you 
let young Bailey alone. He’sa stranger here, 
and might be afraid of you, and thrash you. 
Why do you always throw yourself in the way 
of getting thrashed ? ” 

I turned to the speaker, who by this time 
had reached the spot where we stood. Conway 
slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of 
defiance. I gave my hand to the boy who had 
befriended me — his name was Jack Harris — 
and thanked him for his good-will. 

“ I tell you what it is, Bailey,” he said, re- 
turning my pressure good-naturedly, “ you ’ll 
have to fight Conway before the quarter ends, 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


57 


or you ’ll have no rest. That fellow is always 
hankering after a licking, and of course you ’ll 
give him one by and by ; but what ’s the use 
of hurrying up an unpleasant job ? Let ’s have 
some baseball. By the way, Bailey, you were a 
good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the 
candy. Charley Marden would have caught it 
twice as heavy. He ’s sorry he played the joke 
on you, and told me to tell you so. Hallo, 
Blake ! where are the bats ? ” 

This was addressed to a handsome, frank- 
looking lad of about my own age, who was 
engaged just then in cutting his initials on the 
bark of a tree near the schoolhouse. Blake 
shut up his penknife and went off to get the 
bats. 

During the game which ensued I made the 
acquaintance of Charley Marden, and Binny 
Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and 
Fred Langdon. These boys, none of them 
more than a year or two older than I (Binny 
Wallace was younger), were ever after my 
chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack Har- 
ris were considerably our seniors, and though 
they always treated us “kids” very kindly, 
they generally went with another set. Of 
course, before long I knew all the Temple 
boys more or less intimately, but the five I 
have named were my constant companions. 


58 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

My first day at the Temple Grammar School 
was on the whole satisfactory. I had made 
several warm friends, and only two permanent 
enemies — Conway and his echo, Seth Rodgers ; 
for these two always went together like a 
deranged stomach and a headache. 

Before the end of the week I had my studies 
well in hand. I was a little ashamed at find- 
ing myself at the foot of the various classes, 
and secretly determined to deserve promotion. 
The school was an admirable one. I might 
make this part of my story more entertaining 
by picturing Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a 
red nose and a large stick ; but unfortunately 
for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. 
Grimshaw was a quiet, kind-hearted gentleman. 
Though a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen 
sense of justice, was a good reader of charac- 
ter, and the boys respected him. There were 
two other teachers — a French tutor and a 
writing-master, who visited the school twice 
a week. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we 
were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays 
were the brightest epochs of my existence. 

Daily contact with boys who had not been 
brought up as gently as I worked an imme- 
diate and, in some respects, a beneficial change 
in my character. I had the nonsense taken 



THE PINE FOREST 














THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


59 


out of me, as the saying is — some of the non- 
sense, at least. I became more manly and 
self-reliant. I discovered that the world was 
not created exclusively on my account. In 
New Orleans I labored under the delusion 
that it was. Having neither brother nor sister 
to give up to at home, and being, moreover, 
the largest pupil at school there, my will had 
seldom been opposed. At Rivermouth matters 
were different, and I was not long in adapting 
myself to the altered circumstances. Of course 
I got many severe rubs, often unconsciously 
given ; but I had the sense to see that I was 
all the better for them. 

My social relations with my new schoolfel- 
lows were the pleasantest possible. There was 
always some exciting excursion on foot — a 
ramble through the pine woods, a visit to the 
Devil’s Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood 
— or a surreptitious row on the river, involving 
an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, 
upon» one of which we pitched a tent and 
played we were the Spanish sailors who got 
wrecked there years ago. But the endless 
pine forest that skirted the town was our 
favorite haunt. There was a great green pond 
hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by 
a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, 
who had an eccentric passion for carving his 


60 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

name on everything, never let a captured turtle 
slip through his fingers without leaving his 
mark engraved on its shell. He must have 
lettered about two thousand from first to last. 
We used to call them Harry Blake’s sheep. 

These turtles were of a discontented and 
migratory turn of mind, and we frequently 
encountered two or three of them on the cross- 
roads several miles from their ancestral mud. 
Unspeakable was our delight whenever we dis- 
covered one soberly walking off with Harry 
Blake’s initials ! I have no doubt there are, 
at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering 
about that gummy woodland with H. B. neatly 
cut on their venerable backs. 

It soon became a custom among my play- 
mates to make our barn their rendezvous. 
Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain 
Nutter bought me a little two-wheeled cart, 
which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out 
the dasher and breaking the shafts once or 
twice. With our lunch-baskets and fishing- 
tackle stowed away under the seat, we used 
to start off early in the afternoon for the sea- 
shore, where there were countless marvels in 
the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy 
enjoyed the sport as keenly as any of us, even 
going so far, one day, as to trot down the 
beach into the sea where we were bathing. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 61 

As she took the cart with her, our provisions 
were not much improved. I shall never forget 
how squash pie tastes after being soused in 
the Atlantic Ocean. Soda crackers dipped in 
salt water are palatable, but not squash pie. 

There was a good deal of wet weather dur- 
ing those first six weeks at Rivermouth, and 
we set ourselves at work to find some indoor 
amusement for our half-holidays. It was all 
very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don Quixote 
not to mind the rain ; they had iron overcoats, 
and were not, from all we can learn, subject to 
croup and the guidance of their grandfathers. 
Our case was different. 

“ Now, boys, what shall we do ? ” I asked, 
addressing a thoughtful conclave of seven, 
assembled in our barn one dismal rainy after- 
noon. 

“ Let’s have a theatre,” suggested Binny 
Wallace. 

The very thing ! But where ? The loft of 
the stable was ready to burst with hay pro- 
vided for Gypsy, but the long room over the 
carriage-house was unoccupied. The place of 
all places ! My managerial eye saw at a glance 
its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to 
the play a great many times in New Orleans, 
and was wise in matters pertaining to the 
drama. So here, in due time, was set up some 


62 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


extraordinary scenery of my own painting. 
The curtain, I recollect, though it worked 
smoothly enough on other occasions, invariably 
hitched during the performances ; and it often 
required the united energies of the Prince of 
Denmark, the King, and the Grave-digger, with 
an occasional hand from “ the fair Ophelia ” 
(Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to 
hoist that bit of green cambric. 

The theatre, however, was a success, so far 
as it went. I retired from the business with 
no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after de- 
ducting the headless, the pointless, and the 
crooked pins with which our doorkeeper fre- 
quently got “ stuck.” From first to last we 
took in a good deal of this counterfeit money. 
The price of admission to the “Rivermouth 
Theatre ” was twenty pins. I played all the 
principal parts myself — not that I was a finer 
actor than the other boys, but because I owned 
the establishment. 

At the tenth representation, my dramatic 
career was brought to a close by an unfortunate 
circumstance. We were playing the drama 
of William Tell the Hero of Switzerland. Of 
course I was William Tell, in spite of Fred 
Langdon, who wanted to act that character 
himself. I would not let him, so he withdrew 
from the company, taking the only bow and 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 63 

arrow we had. I made a cross-bow out of a 
piece of whalebone, and did very well without 
him. We had reached that exciting scene 
where Gessler, the Austrian tyrant, commands 
Tell to shoot the apple from his son’s head. 
Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile 
and women parts, was my son. To guard 
against mischance, a piece of pasteboard was 
fastened by a handkerchief over the upper 
portion of Whitcomb’s face, while the arrow to 
be used was sewed up in a strip of flannel. I 
was a capital marksman, and the big apple, 
only two yards distant, turned its russet cheek 
fairly towards me. 

I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood 
without flinching, waiting for me to perform 
my great feat. I raised the cross-bow amid the 
breathless silence of the crowded audience — 
consisting of seven boys and three girls, ex- 
clusive of Kitty Collins, who insisted on pay- 
ing her way in with a clothes-pin. I raised the 
cross-bow, I repeat. Twang! went the whip- 
cord ; but, alas ! instead of hitting the apple, 
the arrow flew right into Pepper Whitcomb’s 
mouth, which happened to be open at the time, 
and destroyed my aim. 

I shall never be able to banish that awful mo- 
ment from my memory. Pepper’s roar, expres- 
sive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, is 


64 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

still ringing in my ears. I looked upon him as 
a corpse, and, glancing not far into the dreary 
future, pictured myself led forth to execution 
in the presence of the very same spectators 
then assembled. 

Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt ; 
but Grandfather Nutter, appearing in the midst 
of the confusion (attracted by the howls of 
young Tell), issued an injunction against all 
theatricals thereafter, and the place was closed ; 
not, however, without a farewell speech from 
me, in which I said that this would have been 
the proudest moment of my life if I had not hit 
Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth. Whereupon 
the audience (assisted, I am glad to state, by 
Pepper) cried “ Hear ! hear ! ” I then attrib- 
uted the accident to Pepper himself, whose 
mouth, being open at the instant I fired, acted 
upon the arrow much after the fashion of a 
whirlpool, and drew in the fatal shaft. I was 
about to explain how a comparatively small 
maelstrom could suck in the largest ship, when 
the curtain fell of its own accord, amid the 
shouts of the audience. 

This was my last appearance on any stage. 
It was some time, though, before I heard the 
end of the William Tell business. Malicious 
little boys who had not been allowed to buy 
tickets to my theatre used to cry out after me 
in the street — 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 65 

“ ‘ Who killed Cock Robin ? * 

‘ 1/ said the sparrer, 

‘ With my bow and arrer, 

I killed Cock Robin ! ’ ” 

The sarcasm of this verse was more than I 
could stand. And it made Pepper Whitcomb 
pretty mad to be called Cock Robin, I can tell 
you ! 

So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and 
more sunshine than fall to the lot of most boys. 
Conway was certainly a cloud. Within school- 
bounds he seldom ventured to be aggressive ; 
but whenever we met about town he never 
failed to brush against me, or pull my cap over 
my eyes, or drive me distracted by inquiring 
after my family in New Orleans, always al- 
luding to them as highly respectable colored 
persons. 

Jack Harris was right when he said Conway 
would give me no rest until I fought him. I 
felt it was ordained ages before our birth that 
we should meet on this planet and fight. With 
the view of not running counter to destiny, 
I quietly prepared myself for the impending 
conflict. The scene of my dramatic triumphs 
was turned into a gymnasium for this purpose, 
though I did not openly avow the fact to the 
boys. By persistently standing on my head, 
raising heavy weights, and going hand over 


66 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

hand up a ladder, I developed my muscle until 
my little body was as tough as a hickory knot 
and as supple as tripe. I also took occasional 
lessons in the noble art of self-defence, under 
the tuition of Phil Adams. 

I brooded over the matter until the idea of 
fighting Conway became a part of me. I fought 
him in imagination during school-hours ; I 
dreamed of fighting with him at night, when he 
would suddenly expand into a giant twelve feet 
high, and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy 
so small that I could not hit him. In this lat- 
ter shape he would get into my hair, or pop 
into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me with as 
little ceremony as the Lilliputians showed Cap- 
tain Lemuel Gulliver — all of which was not 
pleasant, to be sure. On the whole, Conway 
was a cloud. 

And then I had a cloud at home. It was 
not Grandfather Nutter, nor Miss Abigail, nor 
Kitty Collins, though they all helped to com- 
pose it. It was a vague, funereal, impalpable 
something which no amount of gymnastic train- 
ing would enable me to knock over. It was 
Sunday. If ever I have a boy to bring up in 
the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday 
a cheerful day to him. Sunday was not a cheer- 
ful day at the Nutter House. You shall judge 
for yourself. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


67 


It is Sunday morning. I should premise by 
saying that the deep gloom which has settled 
over everything set in like a heavy fog early on 
Saturday evening. 

At seven o’clock my grandfather comes smile- 
lessly down-stairs. He is dressed in black, and 
looks as if he had lost all his friends during the 
night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as 
if she were prepared to bury them, and not in- 
disposed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty 
Collins has caught the contagious gloom, as I 
perceive when she brings in the coffee-urn — 
a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time, 
but monumental now — and sets it down in 
front of Miss Abigail. Miss Abigail gazes at 
the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, 
instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java 
coffee. The meal progresses in silence. 

Our parlor is by no means thrown open every 
day. It is open this June morning, and is 
pervaded by a strong smell of centre-table. 
The furniture of the room and the little China 
ornaments on the mantelpiece have a con- 
strained, unfamiliar look. My grandfather sits 
in a mahogany chair, reading a large Bible 
covered with green baize. Miss Abigail occu- 
pies one end of the sofa, and has her hands 
crossed stiffly in her lap. I sit in the corner, 
crushed. Robinson Crusoe and Gil Bias are 


68 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


in close confinement. Baron Trenck, who 
managed to escape from the fortress of Glatz, 
can’t for the life of him get out of our sitting- 
room closet. Even the Rivermouth Barnacle 
is suppressed until Monday. Genial converse, 
harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all 
are banished. If I want to read anything, I 
can read Baxter’s Saint’s Rest. I would die 
first. So I sit there kicking my heels, thinking 
about New Orleans, and watching a morbid 
blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide 
by butting his head against the window-pane. 
Listen ! — no, yes — it is — it is the robins 
singing in the garden — the grateful, joyous 
robins singing away like mad, just as if it were 
not Sunday. Their audacity tickles me. 

My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a 
sepulchral voice if I am ready for Sabbath- 
school. It is time to go. I like the Sabbath- 
school ; there are bright young faces there , at 
all events. When I get out into the sunshine 
alone, I draw a long breath ; I would turn a 
somersault up against Neighbor Penhallow’s 
newly painted fence if I had not my best trou- 
sers on, so glad am I to escape from the 
oppressive atmosphere of the Nutter House. 

Sabbath-school over, I go to meeting, joining 
my grandfather, who does not appear to be 
any relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, 



THE PARLOR 





THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 69 

in the porch. Our minister holds out very little 
hope to any of us of being saved. Convinced 
that I am a lost creature, in common with the 
human family, I return home behind my guard- 
ians at a snail’s pace. We have a dead-cold 
dinner. I saw it laid out yesterday. 

There is a long interval between this repast 
and the second service, and a still longer inter- 
val between the beginning and the end of that 
service ; for the Rev. Wibird Hawkins’s ser- 
mons are none of the shortest, whatever else 
they may be. 

After meeting, my grandfather and I take a 
walk. We visit, appropriately enough, a neigh- 
boring graveyard. I am by this time in a con- 
dition of mind to become a willing inmate of 
the place. The usual evening prayer-meeting 
is postponed for some reason. At half past 
eight I go to bed. 

This is the way Sunday was observed in the 
Nutter House, and pretty generally through- 
out the town, twenty years ago. Persons who 
were prosperous and natural and happy on Sat- 
urday became the most rueful of human beings 
in the brief space of twelve hours. I do not 
think there was any hypocrisy in this. It was 
merely the old Puritan austerity cropping out 
once a week. Many of these persons were 
pure Christians every day in the seven — ex* 


7o 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


cepting the seventh. Then they were decorous 
and solemn to the verge of moroseness. I 
should not like to be misunderstood on this 
point. Sunday is a blessed day, and therefore 
it should not be made a gloomy one. It is 
the Lord’s day, and I do believe that cheerful 
hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His 
sight. 

“ O day of rest ! How beautiful, how fair, 

How welcome to the weary and the old ! 

Day of the Lord ! and truce to earthly cares ! 

Day of the Lord, as all our days should be ! 

Ah, why will man by his austerities 
Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, 

And make of thee a dungeon of despair 1 ” 


CHAPTER VII 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 

Two months had elapsed since my arrival at 
Rivermouth, when the approach of an impor- 
tant celebration produced the greatest excite- 
ment among the juvenile population of the 
town. 

There was very little hard study done in the 
Temple Grammar School the week preceding 
the Fourth of July. For my part, my heart 
and brain were so full of fire-crackers, Roman- 
candles, rockets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gun- 
powder in various seductive forms, that I won- 
der I did not explode under Mr. Grimshaw’s 
very nose. I could not do a sum to save me ; 
I could not tell, for love or money, whether 
Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee or 
of Florida ; the present and the pluperfect 
tenses were inextricably mixed in my memory, 
and I did not know a verb from an adjective 
when I met one. This was not alone my condi- 
tion, but that of every boy in the school. 

Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances 


72 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

for our temporary distraction, and sought to 
fix our interest on the lessons by connecting 
them directly or indirectly with the coming 
Event. The class in arithmetic, for instance, 
was requested to state how many boxes of fire- 
crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches 
square, could be stored in a room of such and 
such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration 
of Independence for a parsing exercise, and 
in geography confined his questions almost ex- 
clusively to localities rendered famous in the 
Revolutionary War. “ What did the people of 
Boston do with the tea on board the English 
vessels ? ” asked our wily instructor. 

“ Threw it into the river ! ” shrieked the 
smaller boys, with an impetuosity that made 
Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself. One 
luckless urchin said, “ Chucked it,” for which 
happy expression he was kept in at recess. 

Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, 
there was not much solid work done by any- 
body. The trail of the serpent (an inexpen- 
sive but dangerous fire-toy) was over us all. 
We went round deformed by quantities of 
Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our 
trousers-pockets ; and if a boy whipped out his 
handkerchief without proper precaution, he 
was sure to let off two or three torpedoes. 

Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of ac« 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 73 

cessory to the universal demoralization. In call- 
ing the school to order, he always rapped on 
the table with a heavy ruler. Under the green 
baize table-cloth, on the exact spot where he 
usually struck, a certain boy, whose name I 
withhold, placed a fat torpedo. The result was 
a loud explosion, which caused Mr. Grimshaw 
to look queer. Charley Marden was at the 
water-pail at the time, and directed general 
attention to himself by strangling for several 
seconds and then squirting a slender thread of 
water over the blackboard. 

Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully 
on Charley, but said nothing. The real cul- 
prit (it was not Charley Marden, but the boy 
whose name I withhold) instantly regretted his 
badness, and after school confessed the whole 
thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of 
fire upon the nameless boy’s head by giving 
him five cents for the Fourth of July. If Mr. 
Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the 
punishment would not have been half so se- 
vere. 

On the last day of June the Captain received 
a letter from my father, enclosing five dollars 
“ for my son Tom,” which enabled that young 
gentleman to make regal preparations for the 
celebration of our national independence. A 
portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened 


74 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


to invest in fireworks ; the balance I put by 
for contingencies. In placing the fund in my 
possession, the Captain imposed one condi- 
tion that dampened my ardor considerably — 
I was to buy no gunpowder. I might have all 
the snapping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted ; 
but gunpowder was out of the question. 

I thought this rather hard, for all my young 
friends were provided with pistols of various 
sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol 
nearly as large as himself, and Jack Harris, 
though he, to be sure, was a big boy, was going 
to have a real old-fashioned flintlock musket. 
However, I did not mean to let this drawback 
destroy my happiness. I had one charge of 
powder stowed away in the little brass pistol 
which I brought from New Orleans, and was 
bound to make a noise in the world once, if I 
never did again. 

It was a custom observed from time imme- 
morial for the town boys to have a bonfire on 
the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. 
I did not ask the Captain’s leave to attend this 
ceremony, for I had a general idea that he 
would not give it. If the Captain, I rea- 
soned, does not forbid me, I break no orders 
by going. Now this was a specious line of ar- 
gument, and the mishaps that befell me in con- 
sequence of adopting it were richly deserved. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


75 


On the evening of the third I retired to bed 
very early, in order to disarm suspicion. I did 
not sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o’clock to 
come round ; and I thought it never would 
come round, as I lay counting from time to 
time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell 
in the steeple of the Old North Church. At 
last the laggard hour arrived. While the clock 
was striking I jumped out of bed and began 
dressing. 

My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy 
sleepers, and I might have stolen down-stairs 
and out at the front door undetected; but 
such a commonplace proceeding did not suit my 
adventurous disposition. I fastened one end 
of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty 
Collins’s clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest 
the window, and cautiously climbed out on the 
wide pediment over the hall door. I had 
neglected to knot the rope; the result was, 
that, the moment I swung clear of the pedi- 
ment, I descended like a flash of lightning, 
and warmed both my hands smartly. The 
rope, moreover, was four or five feet too short ; 
so I got a fall that would have proved serious 
had I not tumbled into the middle of one of 
the big rose-bushes growing on either side of 
the steps. 

I scrambled out of that without delay, and 


76 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

was congratulating myself on my good luck, 
when I saw by the light of the setting moon 
the form of a man leaning over the garden 
gate. It was one of the town watch, who had 
probably been observing my operations with 
curiosity. Seeing no chance of escape, I put 
a bold face on the matter and walked directly 
up to him. 

“ What on airth air you a-doin’ ? ” asked the 
man, grasping the collar of my jacket. 

“ I live here, sir, if you please,” I replied, 
“ and am going to the bonfire. I did n’t want 
to wake up the old folks, that ’s all.” 

The man cocked his eye at me in the most 
amiable manner, and released his hold. 

“ Boys is boys,” he muttered. He did not 
attempt to stop me as I slipped through the 
gate. 

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels 
and soon reached the Square, where I found 
forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in 
building a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms 
of my hands still tingled so that I could not 
join in the sport. I stood in the doorway 
of the Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, 
among whom I recognized lots of my school- 
mates. They looked like a legion of imps, 
coming and going in the twilight, busy in rais- 
ing some infernal edifice. What a Babel of 



CAPTAIN NUTTER’S ROOM 

















THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


77 

voices it was, everybody directing everybody 
else, and everybody doing everything wrong ! 

When all was prepared, some one applied a 
match to the sombre pile. A fiery tongue 
thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly 
the whole fabric burst into flames, blazing and 
crackling beautifully. This was a signal for 
the boys to join hands and dance around the 
burning barrels, which they did, shouting like 
mad creatures. When the fire had burnt down 
a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped 
on the pyre. In the excitement of the moment 
I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself 
in the thick of the carousal. 

Before we were half ready, our combustible 
material was expended, and a disheartening 
kind of darkness settled down upon us. The 
boys collected together here and there in knots, 
consulting as to what should be done. It yet 
lacked several hours of daybreak, and none of 
us were in the humor to return to bed. I 
approached one of the groups standing near 
the town-pump, and discovered in the uncertain 
light of the dying brands the figures of Jack 
Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper 
Whitcomb, their faces streaked with perspira- 
tion and tar, and their whole appearance sug- 
gestive of New Zealand chiefs. 

“ Hullo ! here ’s Tom Bailey ! ” shouted Pep- 
per Whitcomb ; “ he 'll join in ! ” 


78 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Of course he would. The sting had gone 
out of my hands, and I was ripe for anything 
— none the less ripe for not knowing what was 
on the tapis. After whispering together for a 
moment, the boys motioned me to follow them. 

We glided out from the crowd and silently 
wended our way through a neighboring alley, 
at the head of which stood a tumble-down old 
barn, owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former 
days this was the stable of the mail-coach that 
ran between Rivermouth and Boston. When 
the railroad superseded that primitive mode of 
travel, the lumbering vehicle was rolled into 
the barn, and there it stayed. The stage- 
driver, after prophesying the immediate down- 
fall of the nation, died of grief and apoplexy, 
and the old coach followed in his wake as fast 
as it could by quietly dropping to pieces. The 
barn had the reputation of being haunted, and 
I think we all kept very close together when 
we found ourselves standing in the black 
shadow cast by the tall gable. Here, in a low 
voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which 
was to burn the ancient stage-coach. 

“ The old' trundle-cart is n’t worth twenty- 
five cents,” said Jack Harris, “ and Ezra Win- 
gate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish 
out of the way. But if any fellow here does n’t 
want to have a hand in it, let him cut and run, 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 79 

and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever 
after.” 

With this he pulled out the staples that held 
the rusty padlock, and the big barn door swung 
slowly open. The interior of the stable was 
pitch-dark, of course. As we made a move- 
ment to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the 
sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, 
caused us to start back in terror. 

“ Rats ! ” cried Phil Adams. 

“ Bats ! ” exclaimed Harry Blake. 

“ Cats ! ” suggested Jack Harris. “ Who 's 
afraid ? ” 

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid ; and if 
the pole of the stage had not been lying close 
to the threshold, I do not believe anything on 
earth would have induced us to cross it. We 
seized hold of the pole-straps and succeeded 
with great trouble in dragging the coach out. 
The two fore wheels had rusted to the axle- 
tree, and refused to revolve. It was the mer- 
est skeleton of a coach. The cushions had 
long since been removed, and the leather hang- 
ings, where they had not crumbled away, dan- 
gled in shreds from the worm-eaten frame. A 
load of ghosts and a span of phantom horses to 
drag them would have made the ghastly thing 
complete. 

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood 


8o 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


at the top of a very steep hill. With three boys 
to push behind, and two in front to steer, we 
started the old coach on its last trip with little 
or no difficulty. Our speed increased every 
moment, and, the fore wheels becoming un- 
locked as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, 
we charged upon the crowd like a regiment of 
cavalry, scattering the people right and left. 
Before reaching the bonfire, to which some one 
had added several bushels of shavings, Jack 
Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, 
dropped on the ground, and allowed the vehicle 
to pass over them, which it did without injuring 
them ; but the boys who were clinging for dear 
life to the trunk-rack behind fell over the pros- 
trate steersmen, and there we all lay in a heap, 
two or three of us quite picturesque with the 
nose-bleed. 

The coach, with an intuitive perception of 
what was expected of it, plunged into the centre 
of the kindling shavings, and stopped. The 
flames sprung up and clung to the rotten wood- 
work, which burned like tinder. At this mo- 
ment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the 
inside of the blazing coach. The figure made 
three bounds towards us, and tripped over 
Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with 
his hair somewhat singed, and his eyebrows 
completely scorched off ! 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 8l 

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the 
back seat before we started, intending to have 
a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at us 
afterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was 
on our side, or would have been, if half a dozen 
watchmen had not suddenly pounced down upon 
us, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak 
with mirth over Pepper’s misfortune. We were 
collared and marched off before we well knew 
what had happened. 

The abrupt transition from the noise and light 
of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room 
in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the 
work of enchantment. We stared at one an- 
other aghast. 

“Well,” remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly 
smile, “ this is a go ! ” 

“No go, I should say,” whimpered Harry 
Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the 
heavy iron-plated door. 

“ Never say die,” muttered Phil Adams dole- 
fully. 

The bridewell was a small low-studded 
chamber built up against the rear end of the 
Meat Market, and approached from the Square 
by a narrow passageway. A portion of the 
room was partitioned off into eight cells, each 
capable of holding two or three persons. The 
cells were full at the time, as we presently 


82 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


discovered by seeing several hideous faces leer- 
ing out at us through the gratings of the 
doors. 

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended 
from the ceiling threw a flickering light over 
the apartment, which contained no furniture 
excepting a couple of stout wooden benches. 
It was a dismal place by night, and only little 
less dismal by day, for the tall houses surround- 
ing “the lock-up” prevented the faintest ray 
of sunshine from penetrating the ventilator 
over the door — a long narrow window opening 
inward and propped up by a piece of lath. 

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of 
the benches, I imagine that our aspect was any- 
thing but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked 
very anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had 
just stopped bleeding, was mournfully carving 
his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison 
bench. I do not think I ever saw a more 
“wrecked” expression on any human counte- 
nance than Pepper Whitcomb’s presented. His 
look of natural astonishment at finding him- 
self incarcerated in a jail was considerably 
heightened by his lack of eyebrows. 

As for me, it was only by thinking how the 
late Baron Trenck would have conducted him- 
self under similar circumstances that I was able 
to restrain my tears. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 83 

None of us were inclined to conversation. 
A deep silence, broken now and then by a 
startling snore from the cells, reigned through- 
out the chamber. By and by Pepper Whitcomb 
glanced nervously towards Phil Adams and 
said, “Phil, do you think they will — hang 
us?” 

“ Hang your grandmother ! ” returned 
Adams impatiently; “what I’m afraid of is 
that they ’ll keep us locked up until the Fourth 
is over.” 

“ You ain’t smart ef they do ! ” cried a voice 
from one of the cells. It was a deep bass voice 
that sent a chill through me. 

“ Who are you ? ” said Jack Harris, address- 
ing the cells in general ; for the echoing quali- 
ties of the room made it difficult to locate the 
voice. 

“That don’t matter,” replied the speaker, 
putting his face close up to the gratings of 
No. 3, “ but ef I was a youngster like you, free 
an’ easy outside there, this spot would n’t hold 
me long.” 

“ That ’s so ! ” chimed several of the prison- 
birds, wagging their heads behind the iron 
lattices. 

“ Hush ! ” whispered Jack Harris, rising from 
his seat and walking on tip-toe to the door of 
cell No. 3. “ What would you do ? ” 


84 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

“ Do ? Why, I ’d pile them ’ere benches up 
agin that ’ere door, an’ crawl out of that ’ere 
winder in no time. That’s my adwice.” 

“And werry good adwice it is, Jim,” said 
the occupant of No. 5 approvingly. 

Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opin- 
ion, for he hastily placed the benches one on 
the top of another under the ventilator, and, 
climbing up on the highest bench, peeped out 
into the passageway. 

“ If any gent happens to have a ninepence 
about him,” said the man in cell No. 3, “ there ’s 
a sufferin’ family here as could make use of 
it. Smallest favors gratefully received, an’ no 
questions axed.” 

This appeal touched a new silver quarter of 
a dollar in my trousers-pocket ; I fished out 
the coin from a mass of fireworks, and gave it 
to the prisoner. He appeared to be so good- 
natured a fellow that I ventured to ask what 
he had done to get into jail. 

“ Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here 
by a rascally nevew as wishes to enjoy my 
wealth afore I ’m dead.” 

“ Your name, sir ? ” I inquired, with a view 
of reporting the outrage to my grandfather and 
having the injured person reinstated in society. 

“ Git out, you insolent young reptyle ! ” 
shouted the man, in a passion. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 85 

I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of 
laughter from the other cells. 

“ Can’t you keep still ? ” exclaimed Harris, 
withdrawing his head from the window. 

A portly watchman usually sat on a stool 
outside the door day and night ; but on this 
particular occasion, his services being required 
elsewhere, the bridewell had been left to guard 
itself. 

“All clear,” whispered Jack Harris, as he 
vanished through the aperture and dropped 
softly on the ground outside. We all followed 
him expeditiously — Pepper Whitcomb and 
myself getting stuck in the window for a mo- 
ment in our frantic efforts not to be last. 

“ Now, boys, everybody for himself 1 ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH 

The sun cast a broad column of quivering 
gold across the river at the foot of our street, 
just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter 
House. Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked 
about her so that she looked as if she had on 
a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the 
sidewalk. 

“ Arrah, you bad boy ! ” cried Kitty, leaning 
on the mop-handle, “ the Capen has jist been 
askin’ for you. He 's gone up town, now. It ’s 
a nate thing you done with my clothes-line, 
and it ’s me you may thank for gettin’ it out of 
the way before the Capen come down.” 

The kind creature had hauled in the rope, 
and my escapade had not been discovered by 
the family ; but I knew very well that the 
burning of the stage-coach and the arrest of 
the boys concerned in the mischief were sure 
to reach my grandfather’s ears sooner or later. 

“Well, Thomas,” said the old gentleman, an 
hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me bene- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 87 

volently across the breakfast-table, “you did n’t 
wait to be called this morning.” 

“ No, sir,” I replied, growing very warm, “ I 
took a little run up town to see what was going 
on. 

I did not say anything about the little run I 
took home again ! 

“ They had quite a time on the Square last 
night,” remarked Captain Nutter, looking up 
from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was al- 
ways placed beside his coffee-cup at breakfast. 

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand 
on end. 

“ Quite a time,” continued my grandfather. 
“ Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate’s barn 
and carried off the old stage-coach. The young 
rascals ! I do believe they ’d burn up the 
whole town if they had their way.” 

With this he resumed the paper. After a 
long silence he exclaimed, “ Hullo ! ” — upon 
which I nearly fell off the chair. 

“ ‘ Miscreants unknown,’ ” read my grand- 
father, following the paragraph with his fore- 
finger ; “ ‘ escaped from the bridewell, leaving 
no clue to their identity, except the letter H, 
cut on one of the benches.’ * Five dollars re- 
ward offered for the apprehension of the per- 
petrators.* Sho ! I hope Wingate will catch 
them.” 


88 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

I do not see how I continued to live, for on 
hearing this the breath went entirely out of 
my body. I beat a retreat from the room as 
soon as I could, and flew to the stable with 
a misty intention of mounting Gypsy and es- 
caping from the place. I was pondering what 
steps to take, when Jack Harris and Charley 
Marden entered the yard. 

“ I say,” said Harris as blithe as a lark, “ has 
old Wingate been here ? ” 

“ Been here ? ” I cried, “ I should hope 
not ! ” 

“The whole thing’s out, you know,” said 
Harris, pulling Gypsy’s forelock over her eyes 
and blowing playfully into her nostrils. 

“ You don’t mean it ! ” I gasped. 

“Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate 
three dollars apiece. He ’ll make rather a good 
spec out of it.” 

“ But how did he discover that we were the 
— the miscreants?” I asked, quoting mechan- 
ically from the Rivermouth Barnacle. 

“ Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound 
him! He’s been trying to sell it any time 
these ten years. Now he has sold it to us. 
When he found that we had slipped out of the 
Meat Market, he went right off and wrote the 
advertisement offering five dollars reward ; 
though he knew well enough who had taken 



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THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 89 

the coach, for he came round to my father’s 
house before the paper was printed to talk 
the matter over. Was n’t the governor mad, 
though ! But it *s all settled, I tell you. We ’re 
to pay Wingate fifteen dollars for the old go- 
cart, which he wanted to sell the other day for 
seventy-five cents, and could n’t. It ’s a down- 
right swindle. But the funny part of it is to 
come.” 

“ Oh, there ’s a funny part to it, is there ? ” 
I remarked bitterly. 

“Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the 
advertisement, he knew it was Harry Blake 
who cut that letter H on the bench ; so off he 
rushes up to Wingate — kind of him, was n’t 
it ? — and claims the reward. ‘ Too late, young 
man,’ says old Wingate, * the culprits has been 
discovered.’ You see Slyboots hadn’t any 
intention of paying that five dollars.” 

Jack Harris’s statement lifted a weight from 
my bosom. The article in the Rivermouth 
Barnacle had placed the affair before me in a 
new light. I had thoughtlessly committed a 
grave offence. Though the property in ques- 
tion was valueless, we were clearly wrong in 
destroying it. At the same time, Mr. Win- 
gate had tacitly sanctioned the act by not 
preventing it when he might easily have done 
so. He had allowed his property to be de- 


9 o 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


stroyed in order that he might realize a large 
profit. 

Without waiting to hear more, I went straight 
to Captain Nutter, and, laying my remaining 
three dollars on his knee, confessed my share 
in the previous night’s transaction. 

The Captain heard me through in profound 
silence, pocketed the bank-notes, and walked 
off without speaking a word. He had pun- 
ished me in his own whimsical fashion at the 
breakfast-table, for, at the very moment he was 
harrowing up my soul by reading the extracts 
from the Rivermouth Barnacle, he not only 
knew all about the bonfire, but had paid Ezra 
Wingate his three dollars. Such was the du- 
plicity of that aged impostor ! 

I think Captain Nutter was justified in retain- 
ing my pocket-money, as additional punish- 
ment, though the possession of it later in the 
day would have got me out of a difficult posi- 
tion, as the reader will see farther on. 

I returned with a light heart and a large 
piece of punk to my friends in the stable-yard, 
where we celebrated the termination of our 
trouble by setting off two packs of fire-crackers 
in an empty wine-cask. They made a prodi- 
gious racket, but failed somehow to fully ex- 
press my feelings. The little brass pistol in 
my bedroom suddenly occurred to me. It had 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


91 


been loaded I do not know how many months, 
long before I left New Orleans, and now was 
the time, if ever, to fire it off. Muskets, 
blunderbusses, and pistols were banging away 
lively all over town, and the smell of gun- 
powder, floating on the air, set me wild to add 
something respectable to the universal din. 

When the pistol was produced, Jack Harris 
examined the rusty cap and prophesied that it 
would not explode. 

“ Never mind,” said I, “let ’s try it.” 

I had fired the pistol once, secretly, in New 
Orleans, and, remembering the noise it gave 
birth to on that occasion, I shut both eyes 
tight as I pulled the trigger. The hammer 
clicked on the cap with a dull, dead sound. 
Then Harris tried it ; then Charley Marden ; 
then I took it again, and after three or four 
trials was on the point of giving it up as a bad 
job, when the obstinate thing went off with a 
tremendous explosion, nearly jerking my arm 
from the socket. The smoke cleared away, 
and there I stood with the stock of the pistol 
clutched convulsively in my hand — the barrel, 
lock, trigger, and ramrod having vanished into 
thin air. 

“ Are you hurt ? ” cried the boys in one 
breath. 

“N — no,” I replied dubiously, for the con- 
cussion had bewildered me a little. 


92 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


When I realized the nature of the calamity, 
my grief was excessive. I cannot imagine 
what led me to do so ridiculous a thing, but I 
gravely buried the remains of my beloved pistol 
in our back garden, and erected over the mound 
a slate tablet to the effect that “ Mr. Barker, 
formerly of New Orleans, was Killed accidently 
on the Fourth of july, 18 — in the 2d year of 
his Age.” 1 Binny Wallace, arriving on the 
spot just after the disaster, and Charley Marden 
(who enjoyed the obsequies immensely), acted 
with me as chief mourners. I, for my part, 
was a very sincere one. 

As I turned away in a disconsolate mood 
from the garden, Charley Marden remarked 
that he should not be surprised if the pistol- 
but took root and grew into a mahogany-tree 
or something. He said he once planted an old 
musket-stock, and shortly afterwards a lot of 
shoots sprung up ! Jack Harris laughed ; but 
neither I nor Binny Wallace saw Charley’s 
unfeeling joke. 

We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, 
Fred Langdon, and several other desperate 
characters, on their way to the Square, which 

1 This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped piece 
of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter House, to- 
gether with the pistol-but itself, which was subsequently dug 
up for a post-mortem examination. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


93 


was always a busy place when public festivities 
were going on. Feeling that I was still in 
disgrace with the Captain, I thought it politic 
to ask his consent before accompanying the 
boys. 

He gave it with some hesitation, advising me 
to be careful not to get in front of the firearms. 
Once he put his fingers mechanically into his 
vest-pocket and half drew forth some dollar- 
bills, then slowly thrust them back again as his 
sense of justice overcame his genial disposition. 
I guess it cut the old gentleman to the heart 
to be obliged to keep me out of my pocket- 
money. I know it did me. However, as I was 
passing through the hall, Miss Abigail, with 
a very severe cast of countenance, slipped a 
brand-new quarter into my hand. We had 
silver currency in those days, thank Heaven ! 

Great were the bustle and confusion on the 
Square. By the way, I don’t know why they 
called this large open space a square, unless 
because it was an oval — an oval formed by 
the confluence of half a dozen streets, now 
thronged by crowds of smartly dressed towns- 
folk and country folk ; for Rivermouth on the 
Fourth was the centre of attraction to the in- 
habitants of the neighboring villages. 

On one side of the Square were twenty or 
thirty booths arranged in a semicircle, gay 


94 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


with little flags and seductive with lemonade, 
ginger-beer, and seed-cakes. Here and there 
were tables at which could be purchased the 
smaller sort of fireworks, such as pin-wheels, 
serpents, double-headers, and punk warranted 
not to go out. Many of the adjacent houses 
made a pretty display of bunting, and across 
each of the streets opening on the Square was 
an arch of spruce and evergreen, blossoming 
all over with patriotic mottoes and paper roses. 

It was a noisy, merry, bewildering scene as 
we came upon the ground. The incessant rat- 
tle of small arms, the booming of the twelve- 
pounder firing on the Mill Dam, and the silvery 
clangor of the church-bells ringing simultane- 
ously — not to mention an ambitious brass 
band that was blowing itself to pieces on a 
balcony — were enough to drive one distracted. 
We amused ourselves for an hour or two, dart- 
ing in and out among the crowd and setting 
off our crackers. At one o’clock the Hon. 
Hezekiah Elkins mounted a platform in the 
middle of the Square and delivered an oration, 
to which his “ feller-citizens ” did not pay much 
attention, having all they could do to dodge 
the squibs that were set loose upon them by 
mischievous boys stationed on the surrounding 
housetops. 

Our little party, which had picked up re- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


95 


cruits here and there, not being swayed by 
eloquence, withdrew to a booth on the outskirts 
of the crowd, where we regaled ourselves with 
root beer at two cents a glass. I recollect 
being much struck by the placard surmounting 
this tent — 

Root Beer 
Sold Here. 

It seemed to me the perfection of pith and 
poetry. What could be more terse? Not a 
word to spare, and yet everything fully ex- 
pressed. Rhyme and rhythm faultless. It 
was a delightful poet who made those verses. 
As for the beer itself — that, I think, must have 
been made from the root of all evil ! A single 
glass of it insured an uninterrupted pain for 
twenty-four hours. 

The influence of my liberality working on 
Charley Marden — for it was I who paid for 
the beer — he presently invited us all to take 
an ice-cream with him at Pettingil’s saloon. 
Pettingil was the Delmonico of Rivermouth. 
He furnished ices and confectionery for aris- 
tocratic balls and parties, and did not disdain 
to officiate as leader of the orchestra at the 
same ; for Pettingil played on the violin, 
as Pepper Whitcomb described it, “like Old 
Scratch.” 

Pettingil’s confectionery store was on the 


96 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

corner of Willow and High streets. The 
saloon, separated from the shop by a flight of 
three steps leading to a door hung with faded 
red drapery, had about it an air of mystery and 
seclusion quite delightful. Four windows, also 
draped, faced the side street, affording an un- 
obstructed view of Marm Hatch’s back yard, 
where a number of inexplicable garments on a 
clothes-line were always to be seen careering 
in the wind. 

There was a lull just then in the ice-cream 
business, it being dinner-time, and we found 
the saloon unoccupied. When we had seated 
ourselves around the largest marble-topped 
table, Charley Marden in a manly voice or- 
dered twelve sixpenny ice-creams, “ strawberry 
and verneller mixed.” 

It was a magnificent sight, those twelve 
chilly glasses entering the room on a waiter, 
the red and white custard rising from each 
glass like a church steeple, and the spoon- 
handle shooting up from the apex like a spire. 
I doubt if a person of the nicest palate could 
have distinguished, with his eyes shut, which 
was the vanilla and which the strawberry : but 
if I could at this moment obtain a cream tast- 
ing as that did, I would give five dollars for a 
very small quantity. 

We fell to with a will, and so evenly bal- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


97 


anced were our capabilities that we finished 
our creams together, the spoons clinking in 
the glasses like one spoon. 

“ Let ’s have some more ! ” cried Charley 
Marden, with the air of Aladdin ordering up a 
fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies. “Tom 
Bailey, tell Pettingil to send in another round.” 

Could I credit my ears ? I looked at him to 
see if he were in earnest. He meant it. In a 
moment more I was leaning over the counter 
giving directions for a second supply. Think- 
ing it would make no difference to such a gor- 
geous young Sybarite as Marden, I took the 
liberty of ordering ninepenny creams this time. 

On returning to the saloon, what was my 
horror at finding it empty ! 

There were the twelve cloudy glasses, stand- 
ing in a circle on the sticky marble slab, and 
not a boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting 
go their hold on the window-sill outside ex- 
plained matters. I had been made a victim. 

I could n’t stay and face Pettingil, whose 
peppery temper was well known among the 
boys. I had not a cent in the world to appease 
him. What should I do ? I heard the clink 
of approaching glasses — the ninepenny creams. 
I rushed to the nearest window. It was only 
five feet to the ground. I threw myself out as 
if I had been an old hat. 


98 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly 
down High Street, through Willow, and was 
turning into Brierwood Place when the sound 
of several voices, calling to me in distress, 
stopped my progress. 

“ Look out, you fool ! the mine ! the mine ! ” 
yelled the warning voices. 

Several men and boys were standing at the 
head of the street, making insane gestures to 
me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, 
only in the middle of the road in front of me 
was a common flour-barrel, which, as I gazed 
at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific 
explosion. I felt myself thrown violently off 
my feet. I remember nothing else, excepting 
that, as I went up, I caught a momentary 
glimpse of Ezra Wingate leering through his 
shop window like an avenging spirit. 

The mine that had wrought me woe was not 
properly a mine at all, but merely a few ounces 
of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel 
and fired with a slow-match. Boys who did 
not happen to have pistols or cannon generally 
burnt their powder in this fashion. 

For an account of what followed I am in- 
debted to hearsay, for I was insensible when 
the bystanders picked me up and carried me 
home on a shutter borrowed from the proprie- 
tor of Pettingil’s saloon. I was supposed to 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


99 


be killed, but happily (happily for me at least) 
I was merely stunned. I lay in a semi-uncon- 
scious state until eight o’clock that night, when 
I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who 
watched by the bedside, put her ear down to 
my lips and was saluted with these remarkable 
words — 

“ Strawberry and verneller mixed ! ” 

“ Mercy on us ! what is the boy saying ? ” 
cried Miss Abigail. 

“ Rootbeersoldhere ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 


I BECOME AN R. M. C. 

In the course of ten days I recovered suffi- 
ciently from my injuries to attend school, where, 
for a little while, I was looked upon as a hero, 
on account of having been blown up. What 
do we not make a hero of ? The distraction 
which prevailed in the classes the week pre- 
ceding the Fourth had subsided, and nothing 
remained to indicate the recent festivities, ex- 
cepting a noticeable want of eyebrows on the 
part of Pepper Whitcomb and myself. 

In August we had two weeks’ vacation. It 
was about this time that I became a member 
of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society 
composed of twelve of the Temple Grammar 
School boys. This was an honor to which I 
had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was 
not admitted to the fraternity until my charac- 
ter had fully developed itself. 

It was a very select society, the object of 
which I never fathomed, though I was an active 
member of the body during the remainder of 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


IOI 


my residence at Rivermouth, and at one time 
held the onerous position of F. C. — First 
Centipede. Each of the elect wore a copper 
cent (some occult association being established 
between a cent apiece and a centipede !) sus- 
pended by a string round his neck. The 
medals were worn next the skin, and it was 
while bathing one day at Grave Point, with 
Jack Harris and Fred Langdon, that I had my 
curiosity roused to the highest pitch by a sight 
of these singular emblems. As soon as I 
ascertained the existence of a boys’ club, of 
course I was ready to die to join it. And 
eventually I was allowed to join. 

The initiation ceremony took place in Fred 
Langdon’s barn, where I was submitted to a 
series of trials not calculated to soothe the 
nerves of a timorous boy. Before being led to 
the Grotto of Enchantment — such was the 
modest title given to the loft over my friend’s 
wood-house — my hands were securely pinioned, 
and my eyes covered with a thick silk handker- 
chief. At the head of the stairs I was told in 
an unrecognizable, husky voice, that it was not 
yet too late to retreat if I felt myself physically 
too weak to undergo the necessary tortures. I 
replied that I was not too weak, in a tone which 
I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite of 
me, seemed to come from the pit of my stomach. 


102 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

“ It is well ! ” said the husky voice. 

I did not feel so sure about that ; but, having 
made up my mind to be a Centipede, a Cen- 
tipede I was bound to be. Other boys had 
passed through the ordeal and lived, why 
should not I ? 

A prolonged silence followed this preliminary 
examination, and I was wondering what would 
come next, when a pistol fired off close by my 
ear deafened me for a moment. The unknown 
voice then directed me to take ten steps for- 
ward and stop at the word halt. I took ten 
steps, and halted. 

“ Stricken mortal,” said a second husky 
voice, more husky, if possible, than the first, 
“ if you had advanced another inch, you would 
have disappeared down an abyss three thousand 
feet deep ! ” 

I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece 
of information. A prick from some two- 
pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, 
gently checked my retreat. I was then con- 
ducted to the brink of several other precipices, 
and ordered to step over many dangerous 
chasms, where the result would have been 
instant death if I had committed the least mis- 
take. I have neglected to say that my move- 
ments were accompanied by dismal groans 
from different parts of the grotto. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


103 


Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what 
appeared to me an incalculable height. Here 
I stood breathless while the by-laws were read 
aloud. A more extraordinary code of laws 
never came from the brain of man. The pen- 
alties attached to the abject being who should 
reveal any of the secrets of the society were 
enough to make the blood run cold. A second 
pistol-shot was heard, the something I stood 
on sunk with a crash beneath my feet, and 
I fell two miles, as nearly as I could compute 
it. At the same instant the handkerchief was 
whisked from my eyes, and I found myself 
standing in an empty hogshead surrounded 
by twelve masked figures fantastically dressed. 
One of the conspirators was really appalling 
with a tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger- 
skin sleigh-robe thrown over his shoulders. I 
scarcely need say that there were no vestiges 
to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had 
passed so cautiously. My ascent had been to 
the top of the hogshead, and my descent to 
the bottom thereof. Holding one another by 
the hand, and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic 
Twelve revolved about me. This concluded 
the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys 
threw off their masks, and I was declared a 
regularly installed member of the R. M. C. 

I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of 


104 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


the club, for these initiations, as you may im- 
agine, were sometimes very comical spectacles, 
especially when the aspirant for centipedal 
honors happened to be of a timid disposition. 
If he showed the slightest terror, he was certain 
to be tricked unmercifully. One of our subse- 
quent devices — a humble invention of my own 
— was to request the blindfolded candidate to 
put out his tongue, whereupon the First Cen- 
tipede would say, in a low tone, as if not in- 
tended for the ear of the victim, “ Diabolus, 
fetch me the red-hot iron ! ” The expedition 
with which that tongue would disappear was 
simply ridiculous. 

Our meetings were held in various barns, at 
no stated periods, but as circumstances sug- 
gested. Any member had a right to call a 
meeting. Each boy who failed to report him- 
self was fined one cent. Whenever a member 
had reasons for thinking that another member 
would be unable to attend, he called a meeting. 
For instance, immediately on learning the 
death of Harry Blake’s great-grandfather, I 
issued a call. By these simple and ingenious 
measures we kept our treasury in a flourishing 
condition, sometimes having on hand as much 
as a dollar and a quarter. 

I have said that the society had no especial 
object. It is true, there was a tacit under- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 105 

standing among us that the Centipedes were 
to stand by one another on all occasions, though 
I don’t remember that they did ; but further 
than this we had no purpose, unless it was to 
accomplish as a body the same amount of mis- 
chief which we were sure to do as individuals. 
To mystify the staid and slow-going River- 
mouthians was our frequent pleasure. Several 
of our pranks won us such a reputation among 
the townsfolk that we were credited with hav- 
ing a large finger in whatever went amiss in 
the place. 

One morning, about a week after my admis- 
sion into the secret order, the quiet citizens 
awoke to find that the sign-boards of all the 
principal streets had changed places during the 
night. Persons who went trustfully to sleep in 
Currant Square opened their eyes in Honey- 
suckle Terrace. Jones’s Avenue at the north 
end had suddenly become Walnut Street, and 
Peanut Street was nowhere to be found. Con- 
fusion reigned. The town authorities took the 
matter in hand without delay, and six of the 
Temple Grammar School boys were summoned 
to appear before Justice Clapham. 

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grand- 
father all knowledge of the transaction, I dis- 
appeared from the family circle, and was not 
apprehended until late in the afternoon, when 


106 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

the Captain dragged me ignominiously from 
the haymow and conducted me, more dead than 
alive, to the office of Justice Clapham. Here 
I encountered five other pallid culprits, who 
had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, 
and chicken-coops, to answer the demands of 
the outraged laws. (Charley Harden had 
hidden himself in a pile of gravel behind his 
father’s house, and looked like a recently ex- 
humed mummy.) 

There was not the least evidence against us ; 
and indeed we were wholly innocent of the 
offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, 
had been played by a party of soldiers stationed 
at the fort in the harbor. We were indebted 
for our arrest to Master Conway, who had 
slyly dropped a hint, within the hearing of 
Selectman Mudge, to the effect that “ young 
Bailey and his five cronies could tell something 
about them signs.” When he was called upon 
to make good his assertion, he was considerably 
more terrified than the Centipedes, though 
they were ready to sink into their shoes. 

At our next meeting it was unanimously 
resolved that Conway’s animosity should not 
be quietly submitted to. He had sought to 
inform against us in the stage-coach business ; 
he had volunteered to carry Pettingil’s “ little 
bill” for twenty-four ice-creams to Charley 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


107 


Marden’s father ; and now he had caused us 
to be arraigned before Justice Clapham on a 
charge equally groundless and painful. After 
much noisy discussion a plan of retaliation was 
agreed upon. 

'There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in 
the town, by the name of Meeks. It was gen- 
erally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague 
desire to get married, but, being a shy and 
timorous youth, lacked the moral courage to do 
so. It was also well known that the Widow 
Conway had not buried her heart with the late 
lamented. As to her shyness, that was not so 
clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, 
whose mother she might have been, were of 
a nature not to be misunderstood, and were 
not misunderstood by any one but Mr. Meeks 
himself. 

The widow carried on a dressmaking estab- 
lishment at her residence on the corner oppo- 
site Meeks’s drug-store, and kept a wary eye 
on all the young ladies from Miss Dorothy 
Gibbs’s Female Institute who patronized the 
shop for soda water, acid-drops, and slate- 
pencils. In the afternoon the widow was 
usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her 
window up-stairs, casting destructive glances 
across the street — the artificial roses in her 
cap and her whole languishing manner saying 


108 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

as plainly as a label on a prescription, “ To be 
Taken Immediately ! ” But Mr. Meeks did n’t 
take. 

The lady’s fondness and the gentleman’s 
blindness were topics ably handled at every 
sewing-circle in the town. It was through 
these two luckless individuals that we proposed 
to strike a blow at the common enemy. To 
kill less than three birds with one stone did 
not suit our sanguinary purpose. We disliked 
the widow not so much for her sentimentality 
as for being the mother of Bill Conway ; we 
disliked Mr. Meeks, not because he was in- 
sipid, like his own syrups, but because the 
widow loved him ; Bill Conway we hated for 
himself. 

Late one dark Saturday night in September 
we carried our plan into effect. On the follow- 
ing morning, as the orderly citizens wended 
their way to church past the widow’s abode, 
their sober faces relaxed at beholding over her 
front door the well-known gilt Mortar and Pestle 
which usually stood on the top of a pole on the 
opposite corner ; while the passers on that side 
of the street were equally amused and scandal- 
ized at seeing a placard bearing the following 
announcement tacked to the druggist’s window* 
shutters — 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 109 



The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I 
should be sorry to defend) was recognized at 
once. It spread like wildfire over the town, 
and, though the mortar and placard were 
speedily removed, our triumph was complete. 
The whole community was on the broad grin, 
and our participation in the affair seemingly 
unsuspected. 

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort ! 


CHAPTER X 


I FIGHT CONWAY 

There was one person, however, who cher- 
ished a strong suspicion that the Centipedes 
had had a hand in the business ; and that person 
was Conway. His red hair seemed to change 
to a livelier red, and his sallow cheeks to a 
deeper sallow, as we glanced at him stealthily 
over the tops of our slates the next day in 
school. He knew we were watching him, and 
made sundry mouths and scowled in the most 
threatening way over his sums. 

Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly 
his own — that of throwing his thumbs out 
of joint at will. Sometimes while absorbed in 
study, or on becoming nervous at recitation, he 
performed the feat unconsciously. Through- 
out this entire morning his thumbs were ob- 
served to be in a chronic state of dislocation, 
indicating great mental agitation on the part 
of the owner. We fully expected an outbreak 
from him at recess ; but the intermission passed 
off tranquilly, somewhat to our disappoint- 
ment. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


in 


At the close of the afternoon session it hap- 
pened that Binny Wallace and myself, having 
got swamped in our Latin exercise, were de- 
tained in school for the purpose of refreshing 
our memories with a page of Mr. Andrews’s 
perplexing irregular verbs. Binny Wallace, fin- 
ishing his task first, was dismissed. I followed 
shortly after, and, on stepping into the play- 
ground, saw my little friend plastered, as it 
were, up against the fence, and Conway stand- 
ing in front of him ready to deliver a blow on 
the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentle- 
ness would have stayed any arm but a cow- 
ard’s. 

Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, 
was leaning against the pump lazily enjoying 
the sport ; but on seeing me sweep across the 
yard, whirling my strap of books in the air 
like a sling, he called out lustily, “ Lay low, 
Conway ! here ’s young Bailey ! ” 

Conway turned just in time to catch on his 
shoulder the blow intended for his head. He 
reached forward one of his long arms — he had 
arms like a windmill, that boy — and, grasping 
me by the hair, tore out quite a respectable 
handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they 
were not the tears of defeat ; they were merely 
the involuntary tribute which nature paid to 
the departed tresses. 


H2 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

In a second my little jacket lay on the 
ground, and I stood on guard, resting lightly 
on my right leg, and keeping my eye fixed 
steadily on Conway’s — in all of which I was 
faithfully following the instructions of Phil 
Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting 
journal. 

Conway also threw himself into a defensive 
attitude, and there we were, glaring at each 
other, motionless, neither of us disposed to risk 
an attack, but both on the alert to resist one. 
There is no telling how long we might have 
remained in that absurd position had we not 
been interrupted. 

It was a custom with the larger pupils to re« 
turn to the playground after school, and play 
baseball until sundown. The town authorities 
had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, 
there being no other available place, the boys 
fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just 
at this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars 
entered the gate, and, seeing at a glance the 
belligerent status of Conway and myself, 
dropped bat and ball and rushed to the spot 
where we stood. 

“ Is it a fight ? ” asked Phil Adams, who saw 
by our freshness that we had not yet got to 
work. 

“Yes, it’s a fight,” I answered, “unless 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 113 

Conway will ask Wallace’s pardon, promise 
never to hector me in future — and put back 
my hair ! ” 

This last condition was rather a staggerer. 

“ I sha’n’t do nothing of the sort,” said 
Conway sulkily. 

“ Then the thing must go on,” said Adams, 
with dignity. “ Rodgers, as I understand it, 
is your second, Conway ? Bailey, come here. 
What ’s the row about ?” 

“ He was thrashing Binny Wallace.” 

“ No, I was n’t,” interrupted Conway ; “ but 
I was going to, because he knows who put 
Meeks’s mortar over our door. And I know 
well enough who did it ; it was that sneaking 
little mulatter ! ” — pointing at me. 

“ Oh, by George ! ” I cried, reddening at the 
insult. 

“Cool is the word,” said Adams, as he bound 
a handkerchief round my head and carefully 
tucked away the long straggling locks that of- 
fered a tempting advantage to the enemy. 
“ Who ever heard of a fellow with such a head 
of hair going into action ! ” muttered Phil, 
twitching the handkerchief to ascertain if it 
were securely tied. He then loosened my gal- 
lowses (braces), and buckled them tightly 
above my hips. “ Now, then, bantam, never 
say die ! ” 


1 14 the story of a bad boy 

Conway regarded these business-like prepa- 
rations with evident misgiving, for he called 
Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed 
in a similar manner, though his hair was cropped 
so close that you could not have taken hold of 
it with a pair of tweezers. 

“ Is your man ready ? ” asked Phil Adams, 
addressing Rodgers. 

“ Ready ! ” 

“ Keep your back to the gate, Tom,” whis- 
pered Phil in my ear, “ and you ’ll have the 
sun in his eyes.” 

Behold us once more face to face, like David 
and the Philistine. Look at us as long as you 
may ; for this is all you shall see of the combat. 
According to my thinking, the hospital teaches 
a better lesson than the battlefield. I will tell 
you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if 
you will ; but not a word of the fight. 

You will get no description of it from me, 
simply because I think it would prove very poor 
reading, and not because I consider my revolt 
against Conway’s tyranny unjustifiable. 

I had borne Conway’s persecutions for many 
months with lamb-like patience. I might have 
shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw ; 
but no boy in the Temple Grammar School 
could do that without losing caste. Whether 
this was just or not does not matter a pin, since 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


15 


it was so — a traditionary law of the place. 
The personal inconvenience I suffered from my 
tormentor was nothing to the pain he inflicted 
on me indirectly by his persistent cruelty to 
little Binny Wallace. I should have lacked the 
spirit of a hen if I had not resented it finally. 
I am glad that I faced Conway, and asked no 
favors, and got rid of him forever. I am glad 
that Phil Adams taught me to box, and I say 
to all youngsters : Learn to box, to ride, to 
pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion may 
come round when a decent proficiency in one 
or the rest of these accomplishments will be of 
service to you. 

In one of the best books 1 ever written for 
boys are these words — 

“ Learn to box, then, as you learn to play 
cricket and football. Not one of you will be 
the worse, but very much the better, for learn- 
ing to box well. Should you never have to use 
it in earnest, there ’s no exercise in the world 
so good for the temper, and for the muscles of 
the back and legs. 

“ As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, 
by all means. When the time comes, if ever it 
should, that you have to say * Yes ’ or ‘ No ’ to 
a challenge to fight, say * No * if you can — only 
take care you make it plain to yourself why you 
1 Tom Brown’s School Days at Rugby. 


ii6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

say ‘No. 1 It ’s a proof of the highest courage, 
if done from true Christian motives. It ’s quite 
right and justifiable if done from a simple aver- 
sion to physical pain and danger. But don’t 
say 1 No ’ because you fear a licking and say or 
think it ’s because you fear God, for that ’s 
neither Christian nor honest. And if you do 
fight, fight it out ; and don’t give in while you 
can stand and see.” 

And don’t give in while you can’t ! say I. 
For I could stand very little, and see not at all 
(having pommelled the school-pump for the last 
twenty seconds), when Conway retired from 
the field. As Phil Adams stepped up to shake 
hands with me, he received a telling blow in 
the stomach ; for all the fight was not out of 
me yet, and I mistook him for a new adversary. 

Convinced of my error, I accepted his con- 
gratulations, with those of the other boys, 
blandly and blindly. I remember that Binny 
Wallace wanted to give me his silver pencil- 
case. The gentle soul had stood throughout 
the contest with his face turned to the fence, 
suffering untold agony. 

A good wash at the pump, and a cold key 
applied to my eye, refreshed me amazingly. 
Escorted by two or three of the schoolfellows, 
I walked home through the pleasant autumn 
twilight, battered but triumphant. As I went 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 117 

along, my cap cocked on one side to keep the 
chilly air from my eye, I felt that I was not 
only following my nose, but following it so 
closely, that I was in some danger of treading 
on it. I seemed to have nose enough for the 
whole party. My left cheek, also, was puffed 
out like a dumpling. I could not help saying 
to myself, “ If this is victory, how about that 
other fellow ? ” 

“ Tom,” said Harry Blake, hesitating. 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of 
the recitation-room window just as we left the 
yard ? ” 

“ No ; was he, though ? ” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ Then he must have seen all the row.” 

“ Should n’t wonder.” 

“ No, he did n’t,” broke in Adams, “ or he 
would have stopped it short metre ; but I 
guess he saw you pitching into the pump — 
which you did uncommonly strong — and of 
course he smelt mischief directly.” 

“Well, it can’t be helped now,” I reflected. 

“ — As the monkey said when he fell out of 
the cocoanut-tree,” added Charley Marden, try- 
ing to make me laugh. 

It was early candle-light when we reached 
the house. Miss Abigail, opening the front 


n8 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

door, started back at my hilarious appearance. 
I tried to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile 
rippling over my swollen cheek, and dying 
away like a spent wave on my nose, produced 
an expression of which Miss Abigail declared 
she had never seen the like excepting on the 
face of a Chinese idol. 

She hustled me unceremoniously into the 
presence of my grandfather in the sitting- 
room. Captain Nutter, as the recognized pro- 
fessional warrior of our family, could not con- 
sistently take me to task for fighting Conway ; 
nor was he disposed to do so ; for the Captain 
was well aware of the long-continued provoca- 
tion I had endured. 

“ Ah, you rascal ! ” cried the old gentleman, 
after hearing my story, “ just like me when I 
was young — always in one kind of trouble or 
another. I believe it runs in the family.” 

“ I think,” said Miss Abigail, without the 
faintest expression on her countenance, “ that 
a tablespoonful of hot-dro — ” 

The Captain interrupted Miss Abigail per- 
emptorily, directing her to make a shade out of 
cardboard and black silk, to tie over my eye. 
Miss Abigail must have been possessed with 
the idea that I had taken up pugilism as a pro- 
fession, for she turned out no fewer than six 
of these blinders. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


119 

“ They ’ll be handy to have in the house,” 
said Miss Abigail grimly. 

Of course, so great a breach of discipline 
was not to be passed over by Mr. Grimshaw. 
He had, as we suspected, witnessed the closing 
scene of the fight from the schoolroom win- 
dow, and the next morning, after prayers, I 
was not wholly unprepared when Master Con- 
way and myself were called up to the desk for 
examination. Conway, with a piece of court- 
plaster in the shape of a Maltese cross on his 
right cheek, and I with the silk patch over my 
left eye, caused a general titter through the 
room. 

“ Silence ! ” said Mr. Grimshaw sharply. 

As the reader is already familiar with the 
leading points in the case of Bailey versus 
Conway, I shall not report the trial further 
than to say that Adams, Marden, and several 
other pupils testified to the fact that Conway 
had imposed on me ever since my first day at 
the Temple Grammar School. Their evidence 
also went to show that Conway was a quarrel- 
some character generally. Bad for Conway. 
Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend, proved 
that I had struck the first blow. That was 
bad for me. 

“ If you please, sir,” said Binny Wallace, 
holding up his hand for permission to speak, 


120 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


“ Bailey did n’t fight on his own account ; he 
fought on my account, and, if you please, sir, I 
am the boy to be blamed, for I was the cause 
of the trouble.” 

This drew out the story of Conway’s harsh 
treatment of the smaller boys. As Binny re- 
lated the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very 
little of his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. 
Grimshaw’s hand, unknown to himself perhaps, 
rested lightly from time to time on Wallace’s 
sunny hair. The examination finished, Mr. 
Grimshaw leaned on the desk thoughtfully for 
a moment, and then said — 

“ Every boy in this school knows that it is 
against the rules to fight. If one boy maltreats 
another, within school-bounds, or within school- 
hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The 
case should be laid before me. I disapprove of 
tale-bearing, I never encourage it in the slight- 
est degree ; but when one pupil systematically 
persecutes a schoolmate, it is the duty of some 
head-boy to inform me. No pupil has a right 
to take the law into his own hands. . If there 
is any fighting to be done, I am the person to 
be consulted. I disapprove of boys’ fighting ; 
it is unnecessary and unchristian. In the pre- 
sent instance, I consider every large boy in 
this school at fault ; but as the offence is one 
of omission rather than commission, my pun- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 121 

ishment must rest only on the two boys con- 
victed of misdemeanor. Conway loses his re- 
cess for a month, and Bailey has a page added 
to his Latin lessons for the next four recita- 
tions. I now request Bailey and Conway to 
shake hands in the presence of the school, 
and acknowledge their regret at what has oc- 
curred.” 

Conway and I approached each other slowly 
and cautiously, as if we were bent upon another 
hostile collision. We clasped hands in the 
tamest manner imaginable, and Conway mum- 
bled, “I’m sorry I fought with you.” 

“ I think you are,” I replied dryly, “and I ’m 
sorry I had to thrash you.” 

“You can go to your seats,” said Mr. Grim- 
shaw, turning his face aside to hide a smile. I 
am sure my apology was a very good one. 

I never had any more trouble with Conway. 
He and his shadow, Seth Rodgers, gave me a 
wide berth for many months. Nor was Binny 
Wallace subjected to further molestation. Miss 
Abigail’s sanitary stores, including a bottle of 
opodeldoc, were never called into requisition. 
The six black silk patches, with their elastic 
strings, are still dangling from a beam in the 
garret of the Nutter House, waiting for me to 
get into fresh difficulties. 


CHAPTER XI 


ALL ABOUT GYPSY 

This record of my life at Rivermouth would 
be strangely incomplete did I not devote an 
entire chapter to Gypsy. I had other pets, of 
course ; for what healthy boy could long exist 
without numerous friends in the animal king- 
dom ? I had two white mice that were for- 
ever gnawing their way out of a pasteboard 
chdteau, and crawling over my face when I lay 
asleep. I used to keep the pink-eyed little beg- 
gars in my bedroom, greatly to the annoyance 
of Miss Abigail, who was constantly fancying 
that one of the mice had secreted itself some- 
where about her person. 

I also owned a dog, a terrier, who managed 
in some inscrutable way to pick a quarrel with 
the moon, and on bright nights kept up such 
a ki-yi-ing in our back garden that we were 
finally forced to dispose of him at private sale. 
He was purchased by Mr. Oxford, the butcher. 
I protested against the arrangement, and ever 
afterwards, when we had sausages from Mr. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


123 


Oxford’s shop, I made believe I detected in 
them certain evidences that Cato had been 
foully dealt with. 

Of birds I had no end — robins, purple-mar- 
tins, wrens, bulfinches, bobolinks, ring-doves, 
and pigeons. At one time I took solid comfort 
in the iniquitous society of a dissipated old par- 
rot, who talked so terribly that the Rev. Wibird 
Hawkins, happening to get a sample of Poll’s 
vituperative powers, pronounced him “ a be- 
nighted heathen,” and advised the Captain to 
get rid of him. A brace of turtles supplanted 
the parrot in my affections ; the turtles gave 
way to rabbits ; and the rabbits in turn yielded 
to the superior charms of a small monkey, 
which the Captain bought of a sailor lately from 
the coast of Africa. 

But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of 
many rivals. I never grew weary of her. She 
was the most knowing little thing in the world. 
Her proper sphere in life — and the one to 
which she ultimately attained — was the saw- 
dust arena of a travelling circus. There was 
nothing short of the three R’s, reading, ’riting, 
and ’rithmetic, that Gypsy could not be taught. 
The gift of speech was not hers, but the faculty 
of thought was. 

My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt 
from certain graceful weaknesses, inseparable. 


124 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

perhaps, from the female character. She was 
very pretty, and she knew it. She was also 
passionately fond of dress — by which I mean 
her best harness. When she had this on, her 
curvettings and prancings were laughable, 
though in ordinary tackle she went along de- 
murely enough. There was something in the 
enamelled leather and the silver-washed mount- 
ings that chimed with her artistic sense. To 
have her mane braided, and a rose or a pansy 
stuck into her forelock, was to make her too 
conceited for anything. 

She had another trait not rare among her 
sex. She liked the attentions of young gentle- 
men, while the society of girls bored her. She 
would drag them, sulkily, in the cart ; but as 
for permitting one of them in the saddle, the 
idea was preposterous. Once when Pepper 
Whitcomb’s sister, in spite of our remon- 
strances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy gave 
a little indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle 
Emma heels over head in no time. But with 
any of the boys the mare was as docile as a 
lamb. 

Her treatment of the several members of the 
family was comical. For the Captain she en- 
tertained a wholesome respect, and was always 
on her good behavior when he was around. As 
to Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed at her 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 125 

- — literally laughed, contracting her upper lip 
and displaying all her snow-white teeth, as if 
something about Miss Abigail struck her, 
Gypsy, as being extremely ridiculous. 

Kitty Collins, for one reason or another, 
was afraid of the pony, or pretended to be. 
The sagacious little animal knew it, of course, 
and frequently, when Kitty was hanging out 
clothes near the stable, the mare, being loose 
in the yard, would make short plunges at her. 
Once Gypsy seized the basket of clothes-pins 
with her teeth, and rising on her hind legs, 
pawing the air with her forefeet, followed 
Kitty clear up to the scullery steps. 

That part of the yard was shut off from the 
rest by a gate ; but no gate was proof against 
Gypsy’s ingenuity. She could let down bars, 
lift up latches, draw bolts, and turn all sorts 
of buttons. This accomplishment rendered it 
hazardous for Miss Abigail or Kitty to leave 
any eatables on the kitchen table near the 
window. On one occasion Gypsy put in her 
head and lapped up six custard pies that had 
been placed by the casement to cool. 

An account of my young lady’s various 
pranks would fill a thick volume. A favorite 
trick of hers, on being requested to “walk like 
Miss Abigail,” was to assume a little skittish 
gait so true to nature that Miss Abigail herself 


126 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

was obliged to admit the cleverness of the 
imitation. 

The idea of putting Gypsy through a syste- 
matic course of instruction was suggested to 
me by a visit to the circus which gave an an- 
nual performance in Rivermouth. This show 
embraced among its attractions a number of 
trained Shetland ponies, and I determined that 
Gypsy should likewise have the benefit of a 
liberal education. I succeeded in teaching her 
to waltz, to fire a pistol by tugging at a string 
tied to the trigger, to lie down dead, to wink 
one eye, and to execute many other feats of a 
difficult nature. She took to her studies ad- 
mirably, and enjoyed the whole thing as much 
as any one. 

The monkey was a perpetual marvel to 
Gypsy. They became bosom-friends in an 
incredibly brief period, and were never easy 
out of each other’s sight. Prince Zany — 
that ’s what Pepper Whitcomb and I christened 
him one day, much to the disgust of the 
monkey, who bit a piece out of Pepper’s nose 
— resided in the stable, and went to roost 
every night on the pony’s back, where I usu- 
ally found him in the morning. Whenever I 
rode out I was obliged to secure his Highness 
the Prince with a stout cord to the fence, he 
chattering all the time like a madman. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


127 

One afternoon as I was cantering through 
the crowded part of the town, I noticed that 
the people in the street stopped, stared at me, 
and fell to laughing. I turned round in the 
saddle, and there was Zany, with a great bur- 
dock leaf in his paw, perched up behind me on 
the crupper, as solemn as a judge. 

After a few months, poor Zany sickened 
mysteriously and died. The dark thought 
occurred to me then, and comes back to me 
now with redoubled force, that Miss Abigail 
must have given him some hot-drops. Zany 
left a large circle of sorrowing friends, if not 
relatives. Gypsy, I think, never entirely re- 
covered from the shock occasioned by his early 
demise. She became fonder of me, though ; 
and one of her cunningest demonstrations was 
to escape from the stable-yard, and trot up 
to the door of the Temple Grammar School, 
where I would discover her at recess patiently 
waiting for me, with her forefeet on the second 
step, and wisps of straw standing out all over 
her, like quills upon the fretful porcupine. 

I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear 
the pony was to me. Even hard, unloving 
men become attached to the horses they take 
care of ; so I, who was neither unloving nor 
hard, grew to love every glossy hair of the 
pretty little creature that depended on me for 


128 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

her soft straw bed and her daily modicum of 
oats. In my prayer at night I never forgot to 
mention Gypsy with the rest of the family — 
generally setting forth her claims first. 

Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly 
toH:his narrative ; therefore I offer no apology 
*or rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing 
here, a short composition which I wrote in the 
early part of my first quarter at the Temple 
Grammar School. It is my maiden effort in a 
difficult art, and is, perhaps, lacking in those 
graces of thought and style which are reached 
only after the severest practice. 

Every Wednesday morning on entering 
school, .each pupil was expected to lay his 
exercise on Mr. Grimshaw’s desk ; the subject 
was usually selected by Mr. Grimshaw himself, 
the Monday previous. With a humor charac- 
teristic of him, our teacher had instituted two 
prizes, one for the best and the other for the 
worst composition of the month. The first 
prize consisted of a penknife, or a pencil-case, 
or some such article dear to the heart of youth ; 
the second prize entitled the winner to wear 
for an hour or two a sort of conical paper cap, 
on the front of which was written, in tall letters, 
this modest admission : I am a Dunce ! The 
competitor who took prize No. 2 was not gen- 
erally an object of envy. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 129 

My pulse beat high with pride and expecta- 
tion that Wednesday morning, as I laid my 
essay, neatly folded, on the master’s table. I 
firmly decline to say which prize I won ; but 
here is the composition to speak for itself — 


-c/ 


AA ay /Cu*jte )U 

- A. mit, t 


A-i i 




1 v x- ut +4 

C ^ C ^” '■^prryjt 

HLrr 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^C(.A 

sw^ Jy^/y yfyu. 

1 -*■ 

a£ 




;js 




V 


130 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

It is no small-author vanity that induces 
me to publish this stray leaf of natural history. 
I lay it before my young readers, not for their 
admiration, but for their criticism. Let each 
one take his lead pencil and remorselessly cor- 
rect the orthography, the capitalization, and 
the punctuation of the essay. I shall not feel 
hurt at seeing my treatise cut all to pieces ; 
though I think highly of the production, not on 
account of its literary excellence, which I can- 
didly admit is not overpowering, but because it 
was written years and years ago about Gypsy, 
by a little fellow who, when I strive to recall 
him, appears to me like a reduced ghost of my 
present self. 

I am confident that any reader who has ever 
had pets, birds or animals, will forgive me for 
this brief digression. 


CHAPTER XII 


WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH 

“ I guess we ’re going to have a regular old- 
fashioned snowstorm,” said Captain Nutter, 
one bleak December morning, casting a pecu- 
liarly nautical glance skyward. 

The Captain was always hazarding prophe- 
cies about the weather, which somehow never 
turned out according to his prediction. The 
vanes on the church steeples seemed to take 
a cynical pleasure in humiliating the dear old 
gentleman. If he said it was going to be a clear 
day, a dense sea-fog was pretty certain to set 
in before noon. Once he caused a protracted 
drought by assuring us every morning, for six 
consecutive weeks, that it would rain in a few 
hours. But, sure enough, that afternoon it 
began snowing. 

Now I had not seen a snowstorm since I was 
eighteen months old, and of course remembered 
nothing about it. A boy familiar from his in- 
fancy with the rigors of our New England win- 
ters can form no idea of the impression made 


132 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


on me by this natural phenomenon. My de- 
light and surprise were as boundless as if the 
heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pond- 
lilies and white roses, instead of snowflakes. It 
happened to be a half-holiday, so I had nothing 
to do but watch the feathery crystals whirling 
hither and thither through the air. I stood by 
the sitting-room window gazing at the wonder 
until twilight shut out the novel scene. 

We had had several slight flurries of hail 
and snow before, but this was a regular nor’- 
easter. 

Several inches of snow had already fallen. 
The rosebushes at the door drooped with the 
weight of their magical blossoms, and the two 
posts that held the garden gate were trans- 
formed into stately Turks, with white turbans, 
guarding the entrance to the Nutter House. 

The storm increased at sundown, and contin- 
ued with unabated violence through the night. 
The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, 
the sun was shining brightly, the cloudless 
heavens wore the tender azure of June, and 
the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as 
it were, in a thick mantle of milk-white down. 

It was a very deep snow. The Oldest In- 
habitant (what would become of a New Eng- 
land town or village without its oldest inhabi- 
tant ?) overhauled his almanacs, and pronounced 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


133 


it the deepest snow we had had for twenty 
years. It could n’t have been much deeper 
without smothering us all. Our street was a 
sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not 
to be seen ; for very little street was visible. 
One huge drift completely banked up our front 
door and half covered my bedroom window. 

There was no school that day, for all the 
thoroughfares were impassable. By twelve 
o’clock, however, the great snow-ploughs, each 
drawn by four yokes of oxen, broke a wagon- 
path through the principal streets ; but the 
foot-passengers had a hard time of it flounder- 
ing in the arctic drifts. 

The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet 
wide and six feet high, from our front door to 
the sidewalk opposite. It was a beautiful cav- 
ern, with its walls and roof inlaid with mother- 
of-pearl and diamonds. I am sure the ice 
palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper’s 
poem, was not a more superb piece of architec- 
ture. 

The thermometer began falling shortly before 
sunset, and we had the bitterest cold night I 
ever experienced. This brought out the Old- 
est Inhabitant again the next day — and what 
a gay old boy he was for deciding everything ! 
Our tunnel was turned into solid ice. A crust 
thick enough to bear men and horses had 


134 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


formed over the snow everywhere, and the air 
was alive with merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalac- 
tites, a yard long, hung from the eaves of the 
house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gate 
looked as if they had given up all hopes of ever 
being relieved from duty. 

So the winter set in cold and glittering. 
Everything out of doors was sheathed in silver 
mail. To quote from Charley Marden, it was 
“ cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass mon- 
key ” — an observation which seemed to me 
extremely happy, though I knew little or no- 
thing concerning the endurance of brass mon- 
keys, having never seen one. 

I had looked forward to the advent of the 
season with grave apprehensions, nerving my- 
self to meet dreary nights and monotonous 
days ; but summer itself was not .more jolly 
than winter at Rivermouth. Snowballing at 
school, skating on the Mill Pond, coasting by 
moonlight, long rides behind Gypsy in a brand- 
new little sleigh built expressly for her, were 
sports no less exhilarating than those which 
belonged to the sunny months. And then 
Thanksgiving ! The nose of Memory — why 
should not Memory have a nose? — dilates with 
pleasure over the rich perfume of Miss Abigail’s 
forty mince pies, each one more delightful than 
the other, like the Sultan’s forty wives. Christ- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


135 


mas was another red-letter day, though it was 
not so generally observed in New England as 
it is now. 

The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place 
made our sitting-room very cheerful of winter 
nights. When the north-wind howled about 
the eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet 
tapped against the window-panes, it was nice 
to be so warmly sheltered from the storm. A 
dish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were 
always served during the evening. The Cap- 
tain had a funny way of leaning back in the 
chair and eating his apple with his eyes closed. 
Sometimes I played dominoes with him, and 
sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pro- 
nouncing “ to ” toe, and sounding all the eds. 

In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abi- 
gail’s managing propensities. She had effected 
many changes in the Nutter House before I 
came there to live ; but there was one thing 
against which she had long contended without 
being able to overcome. This was the Cap- 
tain’s pipe. On first taking command of the 
household, she prohibited smoking in the sit- 
ting-room, where it had been the old gentle- 
man’s custom to take a whiff or two of the 
fragrant weed after meals. The edict went 
forth — and so did the pipe. An excellent 
move, no doubt ; but then the house was his, 


136 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burn- 
ing in the middle of the parlor floor, he had a 
perfect right to do so. However, he humored 
her in this as in other matters, and smoked by 
stealth, like a guilty creature, in the barn, or 
about the gardens. That was practicable in 
summer, but in winter the Captain was hard 
put to it. When he could not stand it longer, 
he retreated to his bedroom and barricaded the 
door. Such was the position of affairs at the 
time of which I write. 

One morning, a few days after the great 
snow, as Miss Abigail was dusting the chro- 
nometer in the hall, she beheld Captain Nutter 
slowly descending the staircase, with a long 
clay pipe in his mouth. Miss Abigail could 
hardly credit her own eyes. 

“ Dan’el ! ” she gasped, retiring heavily on 
the hat-rack. 

The tone of reproach with which this word 
was uttered failed to produce the slightest 
effect on the Captain, who merely removed 
the pipe from his lips for an instant, and blew 
a cloud into the chilly air. The thermometer 
stood at two degrees below zero in our hall. 

“ Dan’el ! ” cried Miss Abigail hysterically — 
“ Dan’el, don’t come near me ! ” Whereupon 
she fainted away ; for the smell of tobacco 
smoke always made her deadly sick. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


137 


Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a 
basin of water, and set to work bathing Miss 
Abigail’s temples and chafing her hands. I 
thought my grandfather rather cruel, as he 
stood there with a half-smile on his counte- 
nance, complacently watching Miss Abigail’s 
sufferings. When she was “ brought to,” the 
Captain sat down beside her, and, with a lovely 
twinkle in his eye, said softly — 

“ Abigail, my dear, there was nt any tobacco 
in that pipe ! It was a new pipe. I fetched it 
down for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with.” 

At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, 
her features working strangely. Several min- 
utes later I came upon her in the scullery with 
the greater portion of a crash towel stuffed 
into her mouth. “ Miss Abygil smelt the ter- 
bacca with her oi ! ” cried Kitty, partially re- 
moving the cloth, and then immediately stop- 
ping herself up again. 

The Captain’s joke furnished us — that is, 
Kitty and me — with mirth for many a day ; 
as to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly 
pardoned him. After this, Captain Nutter 
gradually gave up smoking, which is an un- 
tidy, injurious, disgraceful, and highly pleasant 
habit. 

A boy’s life in a secluded New England 
town in winter does not afford many points for 


138 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

illustration. Of course he gets his ears or toes 
frost-bitten; of course he smashes his sled 
against another boy’s ; of course he bangs his 
head on the ice, and he ’s a lad of no enter- 
prise whatever if he does not manage to skate 
into an eel-hole, and be brought home half- 
drowned. All these things happened to me ; 
but, as they lack novelty, I pass them over to 
tell you about the famous snow-fort which we 
built on Slatter’s Hill. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE SNOW-FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 

The memory of man, even that of the Oldest 
Inhabitant, runneth, not back to the time when 
there did not exist a feud between the North 
End and the South End boys of Rivermouth. 

The origin of the feud is involved in mystery ; 
it is impossible to say which party was the 
first aggressor in the far-off ante-Revolutionary 
age ; but the fact remains that the youngsters 
of those antipodal sections entertained a mortal 
hatred for one another, and that this hatred 
had been handed down from generation to gen- 
eration, like Miles Standish’s punch-bowl. 

I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, 
regulated the warmth of the quarrel ; but at 
some seasons it raged more violently than at 
others. This winter both parties were un- 
usually lively and antagonistic. Great was the 
wrath of the South-Enders when they discov- 
ered that the North-Enders had thrown up a 
fort on the crown of Slatter’s Hill. 

Slatter’s Hill, or No-man’s-land, as it was 


140 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


generally called, was a rise of ground covering, 
perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated on an 
imaginary line, marking the boundary between 
the two districts. An immense stratum of 
granite, which here and there thrust out a 
wrinkled boulder, prevented the site from 
being used for building purposes. The street 
ran on either side of the hill, from one part of 
which a quantity of rock had been removed to 
form the underpinning of the new jail. This 
excavation made the approach from that point 
all but impossible, especially when the ragged 
ledges were a-glitter with ice. You see what 
a spot it was for a snow-fort. 

One evening twenty or thirty of the North- 
Enders quietly took possession of Slatter’s 
Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, 
something after this shape — 



The rear of the intrenchment, being pro- 
tected by the quarry, was left open. The walls 
were four feet high, and twenty-two inches 
thick, strengthened at the angles by stakes 
driven firmly into the ground. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 141 

Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the 
next day, when they spied our snowy citadel, 
with Jack Harris’s red silk pocket-handkerchief 
floating defiantly from the flagstaff. 

In less than an hour it was known all over 
town, in military circles at least, that the 
“ Puddle-dockers ” and the “ River-rats ” (these 
were the derisive sub-titles bestowed on our 
South-End foes) intended to attack the fort 
that Saturday afternoon. 

At two o’clock all the fighting boys of the 
Temple Grammar School, and as many recruits 
as we could muster, lay behind the walls of 
Fort Slatter, with three hundred compact 
snowballs piled up in pyramids, awaiting the 
approach of the enemy. The enemy was not 
slow in making his approach — fifty strong, 
headed by one Mat Ames. Our forces were 
under the command of General J. Harris. 

Before the action commenced, a meeting was 
arranged between the rival commanders, who 
drew up and signed certain rules and regula- 
tions respecting the conduct of the battle. As 
it was impossible for the North-Enders to oc- 
cupy the fort permanently, it was stipulated 
that the South-Enders should assault it only 
on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons be- 
tween the hours of two and six. For them 
to take possession of the place at any other 


142 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

time was not to constitute a capture, but, on 
the contrary, was to be considered a dishonor- 
able and cowardly act. 

The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed 
to give up the fort whenever ten of the storm- 
ing party succeeded in obtaining at one time 
a footing on the parapet, and were able to hold 
the same for the space of two minutes. Both 
sides were to abstain from putting pebbles into 
their snowballs, nor was it permissible to use 
frozen ammunition. A snowball soaked in 
water and left out to cool was a projectile 
which in previous years had been resorted to 
with disastrous results. 

These preliminaries settled, the commanders 
retired to their respective corps. The inter- 
view had taken place on the hillside between 
the opposing lines. 

General Harris divided his men into two 
bodies : the first comprised the most skilful 
marksmen, or gunners ; the second, the reserve 
force, was composed of the strongest boys, 
whose duty it was to repel the scaling parties, 
and to make occasional sallies for the pur- 
pose of capturing prisoners, who were bound 
by the articles of treaty to faithfully serve 
under our flag until they were exchanged at 
the close of the day. 

The repellers were called light infantry ; but 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


143 


when they carried on operations beyond the 
fort they became cavalry. It was also their 
duty, when not otherwise engaged, to manufac- 
ture snowballs. The General’s staff consisted 
of five Templars (I among the number, with 
the rank of Major), who carried the General’s 
orders and looked after the wounded. 

General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, 
was no less wide awake in the disposition of 
his army. Five companies, each numbering 
but six men, in order not to present too big a 
target to our sharpshooters, were to charge 
the fort from different points, their advance 
being covered by a heavy fire from the gunners 
posted in the rear. Each scaler was provided 
with only two rounds of ammunition, which 
were not to be used until he had mounted the 
breastwork and could deliver his shots on our 
heads. 

The following diagram represents the inte- 
rior of the fort just previous to the assault. 
Nothing on earth could represent the state of 
things after the first volley — 


144 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 





b. General Harris and his Staff, d. Hospital, g, g. The quarry. 

e , e. Reserve corps. 

The enemy was posted thus — 

S a *** 



a, a. The five attacking columns, b, b. Artillery, c. General Ames’s 
headquarters. 

The thrilling moment had now arrived. If 
I had been going into a real engagement I 
could not have been more deeply impressed by 
the importance of the occasion. 

The fort opened fire first — a single ball 
from the dexterous hand of General Harris 
taking General Ames in the very pit of his 
stomach. A cheer went up from Fort Slat- 
ter. In an instant the air was thick with 
flying missiles, in the midst of which we dimly 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 145 

descried the storming parties sweeping up the 
hill, shoulder to shoulder. The shouts of the 
leaders, and the snowballs bursting like shells 
about our ears, made it very lively. 

Not more than a dozen of the enemy suc- 
ceeded in reaching the crest of the hill ; five of 
these clambered upon the icy walls, where they 
were instantly grabbed by the legs and jerked 
into the fort. The rest retired confused and 
blinded by our well directed fire. 

When General Harris (with his right eye 
bunged up) said, “ Soldiers, I am proud of you ! ” 
my heart swelled in my bosom. 

The victory, however, had not been without 
its price. Six North-Enders, having rushed 
out to harass the discomfited enemy, were gal- 
lantly cut off by General Ames and captured. 
Among these were Lieutenant P. Whitcomb 
(who had no business to join in the charge, be- 
ing weak in the knees) and Captain Fred Lang- 
don, of General Harris’s staff. Whitcomb was 
one of the most notable shots on our side, 
though he was not much to boast of in a rough- 
and-tumble fight, owing to the weakness before 
mentioned. General Ames put him among the 
gunners, and we were quickly made aware of 
the loss we had sustained, by receiving a fre- 
quent artful ball which seemed to light with 
unerring instinct on any nose that was the 


146 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

least bit exposed. I have known one of Pep- 
per’s snowballs, fired point-blank, to turn a 
corner and hit a boy who considered himself 
absolutely safe. 

But we had no time for vain regrets. The bat- 
tle raged. Already there were two bad cases of 
black-eye, and one of nose-bleed, in the hospital. 

It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell 
onslaughts and hand-to-hand struggles. Twice 
we were within an ace of being driven from 
our stronghold, when General Harris and his 
staff leaped recklessly upon the ramparts and 
hurled the besiegers heels over head downhill. 

At sunset the garrison of Fort Slatter was 
still unconquered, and the South-Enders, in a 
solid phalanx, marched off whistling Yankee 
Doodle, while we cheered and jeered them 
until they were out of hearing. 

General Ames remained behind to effect an 
exchange of prisoners. We held thirteen of his 
men, and he eleven of ours. General Ames 
proposed to call it an even thing, since many of 
his eleven prisoners were officers, while nearly 
all our thirteen captives were privates. A dis- 
pute arising on this point, the two noble gen- 
erals came to fisticuffs, and in the fracas our 
brave commander got his remaining well eye 
badly damaged. This did not prevent him from 
writing a general order the next day, on a slate, 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


147 


in which he complimented the troops on their 
heroic behavior. 

On the following Wednesday the siege was 
renewed. I forget whether it was on that after- 
noon or the next that we lost Fort Slatter ; but 
lose it we did, with much valuable ammunition 
and several men. After a series of desperate 
assaults, we forced General Ames to capitu- 
late ; and he, in turn, made the place too hot 
to hold us. So from day to day the tide of bat- 
tle surged to and fro, sometimes favoring our 
arms, and sometimes those of the enemy. 

General Ames handled his men with great 
skill ; his deadliest foe could not deny that. 
Once he outgeneralled our commander in the 
following manner : He massed his gunners on 
our left and opened a brisk fire, under cover of 
which a single company (six men) advanced on 
that angle of the fort. Our reserves on the 
right rushed over to defend the threatened 
point. Meanwhile, four companies of the ene- 
my’s scalers made a detour round the foot of 
the hill, and dashed into Fort Slatter without 
opposition. At the same moment General 
Ames’s gunners closed in on our left, and there 
we were between two fires. Of course we had 
to vacate the fort. A cloud rested on General 
Harris’s military reputation until his superior 
tactics enabled him to dispossess the enemy. 


148 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

As the winter wore on, the war-spirit waxed 
fiercer and fiercer. Finally the provision against 
using heavy substances in the snowballs was 
disregarded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird 
shot came tearing into Fort Slatter. In re- 
taliation, General Harris ordered a broadside 
of shells ; i. e. snowballs containing marbles. 
After this, both sides never failed to freeze 
their ammunition. 

It was no longer child’s play to march up to 
the walls of Fort Slatter, nor was the position 
of the besieged less perilous. At every assault 
three or four boys on each side were disabled. 
It was not an infrequent occurrence for the 
combatants to hold up a flag of truce while 
they removed some insensible comrade. 

Matters grew worse and worse. Seven 
North-Enders had been seriously wounded, 
and a dozen South-Enders were reported on 
the sick list. The selectmen of the town 
awoke to the fact of what was going on, and 
detailed a posse of police to prevent further 
disturbance. The boys at the foot of the hill, 
South-Enders as it happened, finding them- 
selves assailed in the rear and on the flank, 
turned round and attempted to beat off the 
watchmen. In this they were sustained by 
numerous volunteers from the fort, who looked 
upon the interference as tyrannical. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


149 


The watch were determined fellows, and 
charged the boys valiantly, driving them all 
into the fort, where we made common cause, 
fighting side by side like the best of friends. 
In vain the four guardians of the peace rushed 
up the hill, flourishing their clubs and calling 
upon us to surrender. They could not get 
within ten yards of the fort, our fire was so de- 
structive. In one of the onsets a man named 
Mugridge, more valorous than his peers, threw 
himself upon the parapet, when he was seized 
by twenty pairs of hands, and dragged inside 
the breastwork, where fifteen boys sat down on 
him to keep him quiet. 

Perceiving that it was impossible with their 
small number to dislodge us, the watch sent 
for reinforcements. Their call was responded 
to, not only by the whole constabulary force 
(eight men), but by a numerous body of citi- 
zens, who had become alarmed at the prospect 
of a riot. This formidable array brought us to 
our senses : we began to think that may be 
discretion was the better part of valor. Gen- 
eral Harris and General Ames, with their 
respective staffs, held a council of war in the 
hospital, and a backward movement was de- 
cided on. So, after one grand farewell volley, 
we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling 
down the quarry at the rear of the fort, and 
escaped without losing a man. 


150 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those 
battle-scarred ramparts were razed to the 
ground, and humiliating ashes sprinkled over 
the historic spot, near which a solitary lynx- 
eyed policeman was seen prowling from time 
to time during the rest of the winter. 

The event passed into a legend, and after- 
wards, when later instances of pluck and endur- 
ance were spoken of, the boys would say, “ By 
golly ! you ought to have been at the fights on 
Slatter’ s Hill ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 

It was spring again. The snow had faded 
away like a dream, and we were awakened, so to 
speak, by the sudden chirping of robins in our 
back garden. Marvellous transformation of 
snow-drifts into lilacs, wondrous miracle of the 
unfolding leaf ! We read in the Holy Book 
how our Saviour, at the marriage feast, changed 
the water into wine ; we pause and wonder, 
but every hour a greater miracle is wrought 
at our feet, if we have but eyes to see it. 

I had now been a year at Rivermouth. If 
you do not know what sort of boy I was, it is 
not because I have been lacking in frankness 
with you. Of my progress at school I say 
little ; for this is a story, pure and simple, and 
not a treatise on education. Behold me, how- 
ever, well up in most of the classes. I have 
worn my Latin grammar into tatters, and am 
in the first book of Virgil. I interlard my 
conversation at home with easy quotations 
from that poet, and impress Captain Nutter 


152 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


with a lofty notion of my learning. I am like- 
wise translating Les Aventures de T^Rmaque 
from the French, and shall tackle Blair's Lec- 
tures the next term. I am ashamed of my 
crude composition about The Horse, and can 
do better now. Sometimes my head almost 
aches with the variety of my knowledge. I 
consider Mr. Grimshaw the greatest scholar 
that ever lived, and I do not know which I 
would rather be — a learned man like him, or 
a circus-rider. 

My thoughts revert to this particular spring 
more frequently than to any other period of my 
boyhood, for it was marked by an event that 
left an indelible impression on my memory. 
As I pen these pages, I feel that I am writing 
of something which happened yesterday, so 
vividly it all comes back to me. 

Every Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea 
as being in some way mixed up with his des- 
tiny. While he is yet a baby lying in his 
cradle, he hears the dull, far-off boom of the 
breakers ; when he is older, he wanders by the 
sandy shore, watching the waves that come 
plunging up the beach like white-maned sea- 
horses, as Thoreau calls them ; his eye follows 
the lessening sail as it fades into the blue hori- 
zon, and he burns for the time when he shall 
stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, and 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


153 


go sailing proudly across that mysterious waste 
of waters. 

Then the town itself is full of hints and 
flavors of the sea. The gables and roofs of 
the houses facing eastward are covered with 
red rust, like the flukes of old anchors ; a salty 
smell pervades the air, and dense gray fogs, 
the very breath of Ocean, periodically creep up 
into the quiet streets and envelop everything. 
The terrific storms that lash the coast ; the 
kelp and spars, and sometimes the bodies of 
drowned men, tossed on shore by the scornful 
waves ; the shipyards, the wharves, and the 
tawny fleet of fishing-smacks yearly fitted out 
at Rivermouth — these things, and a hundred 
other, feed the imagination and fill the brain 
of every healthy boy with dreams of adventure. 
He learns to swim almost as soon as he can 
walk ; he draws in with his mother’s milk the 
art of handling an oar : he is born a sailor, 
whatever he may turn out to be afterwards. 

To own the whole or a portion of a rowboat 
is his earliest ambition. No wonder that I, 
born to this life, and coming back to it with 
freshest sympathies, should have caught the 
prevailing infection. No wonder I longed to 
buy a part of the trim little sailboat Dolphin, 
which chanced just then to be in the market. 
This was in the latter part of May. 


154 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I 
forget which, had already been taken by Phil 
Adams, Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. 
The fourth and remaining share hung fire. 
Unless a purchaser could be found for this, the 
bargain was to fall through. 

I am afraid I required but slight urging to 
join in the investment. I had four dollars and 
fifty cents on hand, and the treasurer of the 
Centipedes advanced me the balance, receiving 
my silver pencil-case as ample security. It was 
a proud moment when I stood on the wharf 
with my partners, inspecting the Dolphin, 
moored at the foot of a very slippery flight of 
steps. She was painted white with a green 
stripe outside, and on the stern a yellow dol- 
phin, with its scarlet mouth wide open, stared 
with a surprised expression at its own reflec- 
tion in the water. The boat was a great bar- 
gain. 

I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the 
stairs leading down from the wharf, when a 
hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I turned, 
and faced Captain Nutter. I never saw such 
an old sharp-eye as he was in those days. 

I knew he would not be angry with me for 
buying a rowboat ; but I also knew that the 
little bowsprit suggesting a jib and the taper- 
ing mast ready for its few square feet of can- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


155 


vas were trifles not likely to meet his approval. 
As far as rowing on the river, among the 
wharves, was concerned, the Captain had long 
since withdrawn his decided objections, having 
convinced himself, by going out with me sev- 
eral times, that I could manage a pair of sculls 
as well as anybody. 

I was right in my surmises. He commanded 
me, in the most emphatic terms, never to go 
out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in 
the boat-house. This curtailed my anticipated 
sport, but the pleasure of having a pull when- 
ever I wanted it remained. I never disobeyed 
the Captain’s orders touching the sail, though 
I sometimes extended my row beyond the 
points he had indicated. 

The river was dangerous for sailboats. 
Squalls, without the slightest warning, were of 
frequent occurrence ; scarcely a year passed 
that three or four persons were not drowned 
under the very windows of the town, and these, 
oddly enough, were generally sea-captains, who 
either did not understand the river, or lacked 
the skill to handle a small craft. 

A knowledge of such disasters, one of which 
I witnessed, consoled me somewhat when I 
saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in 
a spanking breeze with every stitch of canvas 
set. There were few better yachtsmen than 


156 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Phil Adams. He usually went sailing alone, 
for both Langdon and Binny Wallace were 
under the same restrictions I was. 

Not long after the purchase of the boat, we 
planned an excursion to Sandpeep Island, the 
last of the islands in the harbor. We purposed 
to start early in the morning, and return with 
the tide in the moonlight. Our only difficulty 
was to obtain a whole day’s exemption from 
school, the customary half-holiday not being 
long enough for our picnic. Somehow, we 
could not work it ; but fortune arranged it for 
us. I may say here, that, whatever else I did, 
I never played truant (“ hookey ” we called it) 
in my life. 

One afternoon the four owners of the Dob 
phin exchanged significant glances when Mr. 
Grimshaw announced from the desk that there 
would be no school the following day, he hav- 
ing just received intelligence of the death of 
his uncle in Boston. I was sincerely attached 
to Mr. Grimshaw, but I am afraid that the 
death of his uncle did not affect me as it ought 
to have done. 

We were up before sunrise the next morn- 
ing, in order to take advantage of the flood- 
tide, which waits for no man. Our prepara- 
tions for the cruise were made the previous 
evening. In the way of eatables and drink- 


X 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


157 


ables, we had stored in the stern of the Dol- 
phin a generous bag of hard-tack (for the chow- 
der), a piece of pork to fry the cunners in, 
three gigantic apple pies (bought at Pettingil’s), 
half a dozen lemons, and a keg of spring water 
— the last-named article we slung over the 
side, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under 
way. The crockery and the bricks for our 
camp-stove we placed in the bows with the 
groceries, which included sugar, pepper, salt, 
and a bottle of pickles. Phil Adams contrib- 
uted to the outfit a small tent of unbleached 
cotton cloth, under which we intended to take 
our nooning. 

We unshipped the mast, threw in an extra 
oar, and were ready to embark. I do not be- 
lieve that Christopher Columbus, when he 
started on his rather successful voyage of dis- 
covery, felt half the responsibility and impor- 
tance that weighed upon me as I sat on the 
middle seat of the Dolphin, with my oar rest- 
ing in the rowlock. I wonder if Christopher 
Columbus quietly slipped out of the house 
without letting his estimable family know what 
he was up to ? Charley Marden, whose father 
had promised to cane him if he ever stepped 
foot on sail or row boat, came down to the 
wharf in a sour-grape humor, to see us off. 
Nothing would tempt him to go out on the 


1 58 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

river in such a crazy clam-shell of a boat. He 
pretended that he did not expect to behold us 
alive again, and tried to throw a wet blanket 
over the expedition. 

“ Guess you ’ll have a squally time of it,” said 
Charley, casting off the painter. “ I ’ll drop 
in at old Newbury’s” (Newbury was the parish 
undertaker) “ and leave word, as I go along ! ” 

“ Bosh ! ” muttered Phil Adams, sticking the 
boat-hook into the string-piece of the wharf, 
and sending the Dolphin half a dozen yards 
towards the current. 

How calm and lovely the river was ! Not a 
ripple stirred on the glassy surface, broken only 
by the sharp cutwater of our tiny craft. The 
sun, as round and red as an August moon, was 
by this time peering above the water-line. 

The town had drifted behind us, and we 
were entering among the group of islands. 
Sometimes we could almost touch with our 
boat-hook the shelving banks on either side. 
As we neared the mouth of the harbor, a little 
breeze now and then wrinkled the blue water, 
shook the spangles from the foliage, and gently 
lifted the spiral mist-wreaths that still clung 
alongshore. The measured dip of our oars and 
the drowsy twitterings of the birds seemed to 
mingle with, rather than break, the enchanted 
silence that reigned about us. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 159 

The scent of the new clover comes back to 
me now, as I recall that delicious morning 
when we floated away in a fairy boat down a 
river like a dream ! 

The sun was well up when the nose of the 
Dolphin nestled against the snow-white bosom 
of Sandpeep Island. This island, as I have said 
before, was the last of the cluster, one side of 
it being washed by the sea. We landed on the 
river-side, the sloping sands and quiet water 
affording us a good place to moor the boat. 

It took us an hour or more to transport our 
stores to the spot selected for the encampment. 
Having pitched our tent, using the five oars to 
support the canvas, we got out our lines, and 
went down the rocks seaward to fish. It was 
early for cunners, but we were lucky enough 
to catch as nice a mess as ever you saw. A 
cod for the chowder was not so easily secured. 
At last Binny Wallace hauled in a plump little 
fellow clustered all over with flaky silver. 

To skin the fish, build our fireplace, and cook 
the chowder, kept us busy the next two hours. 

The fresh air and the exercise had given us 
the appetites of wolves, and we were about 
famished by the time the savory mixture was 
ready for our clam-shell saucers. 

I shall not insult the rising generation on 
the seaboard by telling them how delectable is 


160 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

a chowder compounded and eaten in this Rob- 
inson Crusoe fashion. As for the boys who 
live inland, and know not of such marine feasts, 
my heart is full of pity for them. What wasted 
lives ! Not to know the delights of a clam- 
bake, not to love chowder, to be ignorant of 
lobscouse ! 

How happy we were, we four, sitting cross- 
legged in the crisp salt grass, with the invigor- 
ating sea-breeze blowing gratefully through our 
hair ! What a joyous thing was life, and how 
far off seemed death — death, that lurks in all 
pleasant places, and was so near ! 

The banquet finished, Phil Adams drew 
from his pocket a handful of sweet-fern cigars ; 
but as none of the party could indulge without 
imminent risk of becoming ill, we all,. on one 
pretext or another, declined, and Phil smoked 
by himself. 

The wind had freshened by this, and we 
found it comfortable to put on the jackets 
which had been thrown aside in the heat of 
the day. We strolled along the beach and 
gathered large quantities of the fairy-woven 
Iceland moss, which, at certain seasons, is 
washed to these shores ; then we played at 
ducks and drakes, and then, the sun being suf- 
ficiently low, we went in bathing. 

Before our bath was ended a slight change 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 161 

had come over the sky and sea ; fleecy-white 
clouds scudded here and there, and a muffled 
moan from the breakers caught our ears from 
time to time. While we were dressing, a few 
hurried drops of rain came lisping down, and 
we adjourned to the tent to wait the passing 
of the squall. 

“ We ’re all right, anyhow,” said Phil Adams. 
“ It won’t be much of a blow, and we ’ll be as 
snug as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, par- 
ticularly if we have that lemonade which some 
of you fellows were going to make.” 

By an oversight, the lemons had been left in 
the boat. Binny Wallace volunteered to go 
for them. 

" Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny,” 
said Adams, calling after him ; “ it would be 
awkward to have the Dolphin give us the slip 
and return to port minus her passengers.” 

“ That it would,” answered Binny, scram- 
bling down the rocks. 

Sandpeep Island is diamond shaped — one 
point running out into the sea, and the other 
looking towards the town. Our tent was on 
the river-side. Though the Dolphin was also 
on the same side, she lay out of sight by the 
beach at the farther extremity of the island. 

Binny Wallace had been absent five or six 
minutes, when we heard him calling our sev- 


162 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

eral names in tones that indicated distress or 
surprise, we could not tell which. Our first 
thought was, “ The boat has broken adrift ! ” 

We sprung to our feet and hastened down 
to the beach. On turning the bluff which hid 
the mooring-place from our view, we found the 
conjecture correct. Not only was the Dolphin 
afloat, but poor little Binny Wallace was stand- 
ing in the bows with his arms stretched help- 
lessly towards us — drifting out to sea ! 

“ Head the boat inshore ! ” shouted Phil 
Adams. 

Wallace ran to the tiller ; but the slight 
cockle-shell merely swung round and drifted 
broadside on. Oh, if we had but left a single 
scull in the Dolphin ! 

“ Can you swim it ? ” cried Adams desper- 
ately, using his hand as a speaking-trumpet, 
for the distance between the boat and the 
island widened momently. 

Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which 
was covered with white caps, and made a de- 
spairing gesture. He knew, and we knew, 
that the stoutest swimmer could not live forty 
seconds in those angry waters. 

A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams’s 
eyes, as he stood knee-deep in the boiling surf, 
and for an instant I think he meditated plun- 
ging into the ocean after the receding boat. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 163 

The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole 
rapidly over the broken surface of the sea. 

Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the 
stern, and waved his hand to us in token of 
farewell. In spite of the distance, increasing 
every moment, we could see his face plainly. 
The anxious expression it wore at first had 
passed. It was pale and meek now, and I love 
to think there was a kind of halo about it, like 
that which painters place around the forehead 
of a saint. So he drifted away. 

The sky grew darker and darker. It was 
only by straining our eyes through the unnat- 
ural twilight that we could keep the Dolphin 
in sight. The figure of Binny Wallace was no 
longer visible, for the boat itself had dwindled 
to a mere white dot on the black water. Now 
we lost it, and our hearts stopped throbbing ; 
and now the speck appeared again, for an in- 
stant, on the crest of a high wave. 

Finally, it went out like a spark, and we saw 
it no more. Then we gazed at one another, 
and dared not speak. 

Absorbed in following the course of the 
boat, we had scarcely noticed the huddled 
inky clouds that sagged heavily all around us. 
From these threatening masses, seamed at in- 
tervals with pale lightning, there now burst a 
heavy peal of thunder that shook the ground 


164 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

under our feet. A sudden squall struck the 
sea, ploughing deep white furrows into it, and 
at the same instant a single piercing shriek 
rose above the tempest — the frightened cry 
of a gull swooping over the island. How it 
startled us ! 

It was impossible any longer to keep our 
footing on the beach. The wind and the 
breakers would have swept us into the ocean if 
we had not clung to one another with the des- 
peration of drowning men. Taking advantage 
of a momentary lull, we crawled up the sands 
on our hands and knees, and, pausing in the 
lee of the granite ledge to gain breath, returned 
to the camp, where we found that the gale had 
snapped all the fastenings of the tent but one. 
Held by this, the puffed-out canvas swayed in 
the wind like a balloon. It was a task of some 
difficulty to secure it, which we did by beating 
down the canvas with the oars. 

After several trials, we succeeded in setting 
up the tent on the leeward side of the ledge. 
Blinded by the vivid flashes of lightning, and 
drenched by the rain, which fell in torrents, 
we crept, half dead with fear and anguish, un- 
der our flimsy shelter. Neither the anguish 
nor the fear was on our own account, for we 
were comparatively safe, but for poor little 
Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the merci- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 165 

less gale. We shuddered to think of him in 
that frail shell, drifting on and on to his grave, 
the sky rent with lightning over his head, and 
the green abysses yawning beneath him. We 
suddenly fell to crying, and cried I know not 
how long. 

Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented 
fury. We were obliged to hold on to the ropes 
of the tent to prevent it blowing away. The 
spray from the river leaped several yards up 
the rocks and clutched at us malignantly. The 
very island trembled with the concussions of 
the sea beating upon it, and at times I fancied 
that it had broken loose from its foundation, 
and was floating off with us. The breakers, 
streaked with angry phosphorus, were fearful 
to look at. 

The wind rose higher and higher, cutting 
long slits in the tent, through which the rain 
poured incessantly. To complete the sum of 
our miseries, the night was at hand. It came 
down abruptly, at last, like a curtain, shutting 
in Sandpeep Island from all the world. 

It was a dirty night, as the sailors say. The 
darkness was something that could be felt as 
well as seen — it pressed down upon one with 
a cold, clammy touch. Gazing into the hollow 
blackness, all sorts of imaginable shapes seemed 
to start forth from vacancy — brilliant colors, 


1 66 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


stars, prisms, and dancing lights. What boy, 
lying awake at night, has not amused or terri- 
fied himself by peopling the spaces around his 
bed with these phenomena of his own eyes ? 

“I say,” whispered Fred Langdon, at last, 
clutching my hand, “ don’t you see things — 
out there — in the dark ? ” 

“ Yes, yes — Binny Wallace’s face ! ” 

I added to my own nervousness by making 
this avowal ; though for the last ten minutes I 
had seen little besides that star-pale face with 
its angelic hair and brows. First a slim yellow 
circle, like the nimbus round the moon, took 
shape and grew sharp against the darkness ; 
then this faded gradually, and there was the 
Face, wearing the same sad, sweet look it wore 
when he waved his hand to us across the awful 
water. This optical illusion kept repeating 
itself. 

“ And I too,” said Adams. “ I see it every 
now and then, outside there. What would n’t 
I give if it really was poor little Wallace look- 
ing in at us ! O boys, how shall we dare to go 
back to the town without him ? I ’ve wished a 
hundred times, since we ’ve been sitting here, 
that I was in his place, alive or dead ! ” 

We dreaded the approach of morning as 
much as we longed for it. The morning would 
tell us all. Was it possible for the Dolphin to 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 167 

outride such a storm ? There was a lighthouse 
on Mackerel Reef, which lay directly in the 
course the boat had taken when it disappeared. 
If the Dolphin had caught on this reef, perhaps 
Binny Wallace was safe. Perhaps his cries had 
been heard by the keeper of the light. The 
man owned a life-boat, and had rescued several 
persons. Who could tell ? 

Such were the questions we asked ourselves 
again and again, as we lay huddled together 
waiting for daybreak. What an endless night 
it was ! I have known months that did not 
seem so long. 

Our position was irksome rather than peril- 
ous ; for the day was certain to bring us relief 
from the town, where our prolonged absence, 
together with the storm, had no doubt excited 
the liveliest alarm for our safety. But the 
cold, the darkness, and the suspense were hard 
to bear. 

Our soaked jackets had chilled us to the 
bone. In order to keep warm we lay so closely 
that we could hear our hearts beat above the 
tumult of sea and sky. 

After a while we grew very hungry, not hav- 
ing broken our fast since early in the day. The 
rain had turned the hard-tack into a sort of 
dough ; but it was better than nothing. 

We used to laugh at Fred Langdon for al- 


1 68 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ways carrying in his pocket a small vial of es- 
sence of peppermint or sassafras, a few drops 
of which, sprinkled on a lump of loaf-sugar, he 
seemed to consider a great luxury. I do not 
know what would have become of us at this 
crisis if it had not been for that omnipresent 
bottle of hot stuff. We poured the stinging 
liquid over our sugar, which had kept dry in a 
sardine-box, and warmed ourselves with fre- 
quent doses. 

After four or five hours the rain ceased, the 
wind died away to a moan, and the sea — no 
longer raging like a maniac — sobbed and 
sobbed with a piteous human voice all along 
the coast. And well it might, after that night’s 
work. Twelve sail of the Gloucester fishing 
fleet had gone down with every soul on board, 
just outside of Whale’ s-Back Light. Think of 
the wide grief that follows in the wake of one 
wreck ; then think of the despairing women 
who wrung their hands and wept, the next 
morning, in the streets of Gloucester, Marble- 
head, and Newcastle ! 

Though our strength was nearly spent, we 
were too cold to sleep. Once I sunk into a 
troubled doze, when I seemed to hear Charley 
Marden’s parting words, only it was the Sea 
that said them. After that I threw off the 
drowsiness whenever it threatened to overcome 


me. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 169 

Fred Langdon was the earliest to discover a 
filmy, luminous streak in the sky, the first glim- 
mering of sunrise. 

“ Look, it is nearly daybreak ! ” 

While we were following the direction of his 
finger, a sound of distant oars fell upon our 
ears. 

We listened breathlessly, and as the dip of 
the blades became more audible, we discerned 
two foggy lights, like will-o’-the-wisps, floating 
on the river. 

Running down to the water’s edge, we hailed 
the boats with all our might. The call was 
heard, for the oars rested a moment in the row- 
locks, and then pulled in towards the island. 

It was two boats from the town, in the fore- 
most of which we could now make out the fig- 
ures of Captain Nutter and Binny Wallace’s 
father. We shrunk back on seeing him . 

“Thank God!” cried Mr. Wallace fervently, 
as he leaped from the wherry without waiting 
for the bow to touch the beach. 

But when he saw only three boys standing 
on the sands, his eye wandered restlessly 
about in quest of the fourth ; then a deadly 
pallor overspread his features. 

Our story was soon told. A solemn silence 
fell upon the crowd of rough boatmen gathered 
round, interrupted only by a stifled sob from 


170 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

one poor old man who stood apart from the 
rest. 

The sea was still running too high for any 
small boat to venture out ; so it was arranged 
that the wherry should take us back to town, 
leaving the yawl, with a picked crew, to hug 
the island until daybreak, and then set forth 
in search of the Dolphin. 

Though it was barely sunrise when we 
reached town, there were a great many per- 
sons assembled at the landing eager for intelli- 
gence from missing boats. Two picnic parties 
had started down river the day before, just 
previous to the gale, and nothing had been 
heard of them. It turned out that the pleasure- 
seekers saw their danger in time, and ran 
ashore on one of the least exposed islands, 
where they passed the night. Shortly after 
our own arrival they appeared off Rivermouth, 
much to the joy of their friends, in two shat- 
tered, dismasted boats. 

The excitement over, I was in a forlorn 
state, physically and mentally. Captain Nutter 
put me to bed between hot blankets, and sent 
Kitty Collins for the doctor. I was wandering 
in my mind, and fancied myself still on Sand- 
peep Island : now we were building our brick 
stove to cook the chowder, and, in my delirium, 
I laughed aloud and shouted to my comrades ; 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 171 

now the sky darkened, and the squall struck 
the island ; now I gave orders to Wallace how 
to manage the boat, and now I cried because 
the rain was pouring in on me through the 
holes in the tent. Towards evening a high 
fever set in, and it was many days before my 
grandfather deemed it prudent to tell me that 
the Dolphin had been found, floating keel 
upwards, four miles southeast of Mackerel 
Reef. 

Poor little Binny Wallace ! How strange it 
seemed, when I went to school again, to see 
that empty seat in the fifth row ! How gloomy 
the playground was, lacking the sunshine of 
his gentle, sensitive face ! One day a folded 
sheet slipped from my algebra ; it was the last 
note he ever wrote me. I could not read it 
for the tears. 

What a pang shot across my heart the after- 
noon it was whispered through the town that 
a body had been washed ashore at Grave Point 
— the place where we bathed. We bathed 
there no more ! How well I remember the 
funeral, and what a piteous sight it was after- 
wards to see his familiar name on a small 
headstone in the Old South Burying-Ground. 

Poor little Binny Wallace ! Always the same 
to me. The rest of us have grown up into 
hard, worldly men, fighting the fight of life ; 


172 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


but you are forever young, and gentle, and 
pure ; a part of my own childhood that time 
cannot wither ; always a little boy, always 
poor little Binny Wallace 1 


CHAPTER XV 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP 

A year had stolen by since the death of 
Binny Wallace — a year of which I have no- 
thing important to record. 

The loss of our little playmate threw a 
shadow over our young lives for many and 
many a month. The Dolphin rose and fell 
with the tide at the foot of the slippery steps, 
unused, the rest of the summer. At the close 
of November we hauled her sadly into the 
boat-house for the winter; but when spring 
came round we launched the Dolphin again, 
and often went down to the wharf and looked 
at her lying in the tangled eel-grass, without 
much inclination to take a row. The associa- 
tions connected with the boat were too painful 
as yet ; but time, which wears the sharp edge 
from everything, softened this feeling, and one 
afternoon we brought out the cobwebbed oars. 

The ice once broken, brief trips along the 
wharves — we seldom cared to go out into the 
river now — became one of our chief amuse- 


174 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ments. Meanwhile Gypsy was not forgotten. 
Every clear morning I was in the saddle be- 
fore breakfast, and there are few roads or lanes 
within ten miles of Rivermouth that have not 
borne the print of her vagrant hoof. 

I studied like a good fellow this quarter, 
carrying off a couple of first prizes. The Cap- 
tain expressed his gratification by presenting 
me with a new silver dollar. If a dollar in his 
eyes was smaller than a cart-wheel, it was not 
so very much smaller. I redeemed my pencil- 
case from the treasurer of the Centipedes, and 
felt that I was getting on in the world. 

It was at this time I was greatly cast down 
by a letter from my father saying that he 
should be unable to visit Rivermouth until the 
following year. With that letter came another 
to Captain Nutter, which he did not read aloud 
to the family, as usual. It was on business, 
he said, folding it up in his wallet. He re- 
ceived several of these business letters from 
time to time, and I noticed that they always 
made him silent and moody. 

The fact is my father’s banking-house was 
not thriving. The unlooked-for failure of a 
firm largely indebted to him had crippled “the 
house.” When the Captain imparted this in- 
formation to me I did not trouble myself over 
the matter. I supposed — if I supposed any- 







THE SPARE ROOM 




THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


175 


thing — that all grown-up people had more or 
less money, when they wanted it. Whether 
they inherited it, or whether government sup- 
plied them, was not clear to me. A loose idea 
that my father had a private gold-mine some- 
where or other relieved me of all uneasiness. 

I was not far from right. Every man has 
within himself a gold-mine whose riches are 
limited only by his own industry. It is true, it 
sometimes happens that industry does not avail, 
if a man lacks that something which, for want 
of a better name, we call luck. My father was 
a person of untiring energy and ability, but he 
had no luck. To use a Rivermouth saying, he 
was always catching sculpins when every one 
else with the same bait was catching mackerel. 

It was more than two years since I had seen 
my parents. I felt that I could not bear a 
longer separation. Every letter from New 
Orleans — we got two or three a month — gave 
me a fit of homesickness ; and when it was 
definitely settled that my father and mother 
were to remain in the South another twelve- 
month, I resolved to go to them. 

Since Binny Wallace’s death, Pepper Whit- 
comb had been my fidus Achates ; we occupied 
desks near each other at school, and were 
always together in play hours. We rigged a 
twine telegraph from his garret window to the 


176 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

scuttle of the Nutter House, and sent messages 
to each other in a match-box. We shared our 
pocket-money and our secrets — those amazing 
secrets which boys have. We met in lonely 
places by stealth, and parted like conspirators ; 
we could not buy a jackknife or build a kite 
without throwing an air of mystery and guilt 
over the transaction. 

I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans 
project before Pepper Whitcomb, having 
dragged him for that purpose to a secluded 
spot in the dark pine woods outside the town. 
Pepper listened to me with a gravity which he 
will not be able to surpass when he becomes 
Chief Justice, and strongly advised me to go. 

“ The summer vacation,” said Pepper, “ lasts 
six weeks ; that will give you a fortnight to 
spend in New Orleans, allowing two weeks 
each way for the journey.” 

I wrung his hand and begged him to accom- 
pany me, offering to defray all the expenses. 
I was nothing if I was not princely in those 
days. After considerable urging, he consented 
to go on terms so liberal. The whole thing 
was arranged ; there was nothing to do now but 
to advise Captain Nutter of my plan, which I 
did the next day. 

The possibility that he might oppose the 
tour never entered my head. I was therefore 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 177 

totally unprepared for the vigorous nega- 
tive which met my proposal. I was deeply 
mortified, moreover, for there was Pepper 
Whitcomb on the wharf, at the foot of the 
street, waiting for me to come and let him 
know what day we were to start. 

“ Go to New Organs ? Go to Jericho !” ex- 
claimed Captain Nutter. “ You’d look pretty, 
you two, philandering off, like the babes in the 
wood, twenty-five hundred miles, 1 with all the 
world before you where to choose * ! ” 

And the Captain's features, which had worn 
an indignant air as he began the sentence, 
relaxed into a broad smile. Whether it was 
at the felicity of his own quotation, or at the 
mental picture he drew of Pepper and myself 
on our travels, I could not tell, and little cared. 
I was heart-broken. How could I face my 
chum after all the dazzling inducements I had 
held out to him ? 

My grandfather, seeing that I took the mat- 
ter seriously, pointed out the difficulties of 
such a journey and the great expense involved. 
He entered into the details of my father's 
money troubles, and succeeded in making it 
plain to me that my wishes, under the circum- 
stances, were somewhat unreasonable. It was 
in no cheerful mood that I joined Pepper at 
the end of the wharf. 


178 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

I found that young gentleman leaning against 
the bulkhead gazing intently towards the 
islands in the harbor. He had formed a tele- 
scope of his hands, and was so occupied with 
his observations as to be oblivious of my 
approach. 

“ Hullo ! ” cried Pepper, dropping his hands. 
“ Look there ! is n’t that a l ark coming up the 
Narrows ? ” 

« Where ? ” 

“ Just at the left of Fishcrate Island. Don’t 
you see the mainmast peeping above the old 
derrick?” 

Sure enough, it was a vessel of considerable 
size, slowly beating up to town. In a few mo- 
ments more the other two masts were visible 
above the green hillocks. 

“ Fore-topmasts blown away,” said Pepper. 
“ Putting in for repairs, I guess.” 

As the bark lazily crept from behind the 
last of the islands, she let go her anchors and 
swung round with the tide. Then the gleeful 
chant of the sailors at the capstan came to us 
pleasantly across the water. The vessel lay 
within three quarters of a mile of us, and we 
could plainly see the men at the davits lowering 
the starboard long-boat. It no sooner touched 
the stream than a dozen of the crew scrambled 
like mice over the side of the merchantman. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


179 

In a neglected seaport like Rivermouth the 
arrival of a large ship is an event of moment. 
The prospect of having twenty or thirty jolly 
tars let loose on the peaceful town excites 
divers emotions among the inhabitants. The 
small shopkeepers along the wharves antici- 
pate a thriving trade ; the proprietors of the 
two rival boarding-houses — The Wee Drop 
and The Sailor’s Rest — hasten down to the 
landing to secure lodgers ; and the female 
population of Anchor Lane turn out to a wo- 
man, for a ship fresh from sea is always full 
of possible husbands and long-lost prodigal 
sons. 

But aside from this there is scant welcome 
given to a ship’s crew in Rivermouth. The 
toil-worn mariner is a sad fellow ashore, judg- 
ing him by a severe moral standard. 

Once, I remember, a United States frigate 
came into port for repairs after a storm. She 
lay in the river a fortnight or more, and every 
day sent us a gang of sixty or seventy of our 
country’s gallant defenders, who spread them- 
selves over the town, doing all sorts of mad 
things. They were good-natured enough, but 
full of old Sancho. The Wee Drop proved a 
drop too much for many of them. They went 
singing through the streets at midnight, wring- 
ing off door-knockers, shinning up water-spouts, 


180 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

and frightening the Oldest Inhabitant nearly 
to death by popping their heads into his sec- 
ond-story window, and shouting “ Fire ! ” One 
morning a blue -jacket was discovered in a 
perilous plight, halfway up the steeple of the 
South Church, clinging to the lightning-rod. 
How he got there nobody could tell, not even 
blue-jacket himself. All he knew was, that 
the leg of his trousers had caught on a nail, 
and there he stuck, unable to move either way. 
It cost the town five or six dollars to get him 
down again. He directed the workmen how 
to splice the ladders brought to his assistance, 
and called his rescuers “ butter-fingered land- 
lubbers ” with delicious coolness. 

But those were man-of-war’s men. The 
sedate-looking craft now lying off Fishcrate 
Island was not likely to carry any such lively 
cargo. Nevertheless, we watched the com- 
ing in of the long-boat with considerable in- 
terest. 

As it drew near, the figure of the man pull- 
ing the bow-oar seemed oddly familiar to me. 
Where could I have seen him before ? When 
and where ? His back was towards me, but 
there was something about that closely cropped 
head that I recognized instantly. 

“ Way enough ! ” cried the steersman, and 
all the oars stood upright in the air. The man 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 181 

in the bow seized the boat-hook, and, turning 
round quickly, showed me the honest face of 
Sailor Ben of the Typhoon. 

“ It ’s Sailor Ben ! ” I cried, nearly pushing 
, Pepper Whitcomb overboard in my excite- 
ment. 

Sailor Ben, with the wonderful pink lady on 
his arm, and the ships and stars and anchors 
tattooed all over him, was a well-known hero 
among my playmates. And there he was, like 
something in a dream come true ! 

I did not wait for my old acquaintance to 
get firmly on the wharf, before I grasped his 
hand in both of mine. 

“ Sailor Ben, don’t you remember me ? ” 

He evidently did not. He shifted his quid 
from one cheek to the other, and looked at me 
meditatively. 

“ Lord love ye, lad, I don’t know you. I 
was never here afore in my life.” 

“ What ! ” I cried, enjoying his perplexity, 
“ have you forgotten the voyage from New 
Orleans in the Typhoon, two years ago, you 
lovely old picture-book ? ” 

Ah ! then he knew me, and in token of the 
recollection gave my hand such a squeeze that 
I am sure an unpleasant change came over my 
countenance. 

“ Bless my eyes, but you have growed ! I 


182 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


should n’t have knowed you if I had met you 
in Singapore ! ” 

Without stopping to inquire, as I was tempted 
to do, why he was more likely to recognize me 
in Singapore than anywhere else, I invited him 
to come at once up to the Nutter House, where 
I insured him a warm welcome from the Cap- 
tain. 

“ Hold steady, Master Tom,” said Sailor 
Ben, slipping the painter through the ring-bolt 
and tying the loveliest knot you ever saw; 
“ hold steady till I see if the mate can let me 
off. If you please, sir,” he continued, address' 
ing the steersman, a very red-faced, bow-legged 
person, “ this here is a little shipmate o’ mine 
as wants to talk over back times along of me, 
if so it’s convenient.” 

“All right, Ben,” returned the mate; “sha’n’t 
want you for an hour.” 

Leaving one man in charge of the boat, the 
mate and the rest of the crew went off together. 
In the meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb had got 
out his cunner line, and was quietly fishing at 
the end of the wharf, as if to give me the idea 
that he was not very much impressed by my 
intimacy with so renowned a character as Sailor 
Ben. Perhaps Pepper was a little jealous. At 
any rate, he refused to go with us to the 
house. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 183 

Captain Nutter was at home reading the 
Rivermouth Barnacle. He was a reader to do 
an editor’s heart good ; he never skipped over 
an advertisement, even if he had read it fifty- 
times before. Then the paper went the rounds 
of the neighborhood, among the poor people, 
like the single portable eye which the three 
blind crones passed to one another in the le- 
gend of King Acrisius. The Captain, I repeat, 
was wandering in the labyrinths of the River- 
mouth Barnacle when I led Sailor Ben into the 
sitting-room. 

My grandfather, whose inborn courtesy knew 
no distinctions, received my nautical friend as 
if he had been an admiral instead of a common 
forecastle-hand. Sailor Ben pulled an imagi- 
nary tuft of hair on his forehead, and bowed 
clumsily. Sailors have a way of using their 
forelock as a sort of handle to bow with. 

The old tar had probably never been in so 
handsome an apartment in all his days, and 
nothing could induce him to take the inviting 
mahogany chair which the Captain wheeled out 
from the corner. 

The abashed mariner stood up against the 
wall, twirling his tarpaulin in his two hands 
and looking extremely silly. He made a poor 
show in a gentleman’s drawing-room, but what 
a fellow he had been in his day, when the gale 


1 84 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

blew great guns and the topsails wanted reef- 
ing ! I thought of him with the Mexican squad- 
ron off Vera Cruz, where 

“ The rushing battle-bolt sung from the three-decker out of 
the foam,” 

and he did not seem awkward or ignoble to me, 
for all his shyness. 

As Sailor Ben declined to sit down, the Cap- 
tain did not resume his seat ; so we three stood 
in a constrained manner until my grandfather 
went to the door and called to Kitty to bring 
in a decanter of madeira and two glasses. 

“My grandson, here, has talked so much 
about you,” said the Captain pleasantly, “ that 
you seem quite like an old acquaintance to 
me.” 

“ Thankee, sir, thankee,” returned Sailor 
Ben, looking as guilty as if he had been de- 
tected in picking a pocket. 

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mr. — 
Mr.” — 

“ Watson — Benjamin Watson.” 

“ Mr. Watson,” added the Captain. “ Tom, 
open the door, there’s Kitty with the glasses.” 

I opened the door, and Kitty entered the 
room bringing the things on a waiter, which 
she was about to set on the table, when sud- 
denly she uttered a loud shriek ; the decanter 
and glasses fell with a crash to the floor, and 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 185 

Kitty, as white as a sheet, was seen flying 
through the hall. 

“ It ’s his wraith ! It ’s his wraith 1 ! ” we 
heard Kitty shrieking, in the kitchen. 

My grandfather and I turned with amazement 
to Sailor Ben. His eyes were standing out of 
his head like a lobster s. 

“ It ’s my own little Irish lass ! ” shouted the 
sailor, and he darted into the hall after her. 

Even then we scarcely caught the meaning 
of his words, but when we saw Watson and 
Kitty sobbing on each other’s shoulder in the 
kitchen, we understood it all. 

“ I begs your honor’s parden, sir,” he said, 
lifting his tear-stained face above Kitty’s tum- 
bled hair ; “ I begs your honor’s parden for 
kicking up a rumpus in the house, but it ’s my 
own little Irish lass as I lost so long ago ! ” 

“ Heaven preserve us ! ” cried the Captain, 
blowing his nose violently — a transparent ruse 
to hide his emotion. 

Miss Abigail was in an upper chamber, 
sweeping ; but on hearing the unusual racket 
below, she scented an accident and came am- 
bling down-stairs with a bottle of the infallible 
hot-drops in her hand. Nothing but the firm- 
ness of my grandfather prevented her from 
giving Sailor Ben a tablespoonful on the spot. 

1 Ghost, spirit. 


1 86 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


But when she learned what had come about 
— that this was Kitty’s husband, that Kitty 
Collins was not Kitty Collins now, but Mrs. 
Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket — the good 
soul sat down on the meal-chest and sobbed as 
if — to quote from Captain Nutter — as if a 
husband of her own had turned up ! 

A happier set of persons than we were never 
met together in a dingy kitchen or anywhere 
else. The Captain ordered a fresh decanter 
of madeira, and made all hands, excepting my- 
self, drink a cup to the return of “ the prodigal 
sea-son,” as he called Sailor Ben. 

After the first flush of joy and surprise was 
over, Kitty grew silent and constrained. Now 
and then she fixed her eyes thoughtfully on 
her husband. Why had he deserted her all 
these long years ? What right had he to look 
for a welcome from one he had treated so 
cruelly ? She had been true to him, but had 
he been true to her ? Sailor Ben must have 
guessed what was passing in her mind, for 
presently he took her hand and said — 

“ Well, lass, it ’s a long yarn, but you shall 
have it all in good time. It was my hard luck 
as made us part company, an’ no will of mine, 
for I loved you dear.” 

Kitty brightened up immediately, needing 
no other assurance of Sailor Ben’s faithfulness. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


187 


When his hour had expired, we walked with 
him down to the wharf, where the Captain held 
a consultation with the mate, which resulted 
in an extension of Mr. Watson’s leave of 
absence, and afterwards in his discharge from 
his ship. We then went to The Sailor’s Rest 
to engage a room for him, as he would not 
hear of accepting the hospitalities of the Nut- 
ter House. 

“ You see, I’m only an uneddicated man,” 
he remarked to my grandfather, by way of 
explanation. 


CHAPTER XVI 


IN WHICH SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 

Of course we were all very curious to learn 
what had befallen Sailor Ben that morning 
long ago, when he bade his little bride good-by 
and disappeared so mysteriously. 

After tea, that same evening, we assembled 
around the table in the kitchen — the only 
place where Sailor Ben felt at home — to hear 
what he had to say for himself. 

The candles were snuffed, and a pitcher of 
foaming nut-brown ale was set at the elbow of 
the speaker, who was evidently embarrassed 
by the respectability of his audience, consisting 
of Captain Nutter, Miss Abigail, myself, and 
Kitty, whose face shone with happiness like 
one of the polished tin platters on the dresser. 

“ Well, my hearties,” commenced Sailor 
Ben — then he stopped short and turned very 
red, as it struck him that may be this was not 
quite the proper way to address a dignitary 
like the Captain and a severe elderly lady like 
Miss Abigail Nutter, who sat bolt upright 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 189 

staring at him as she would have stared at the 
Tycoon of Japan himself. 

“ I ain’t much of a hand at spinnin’ a yarn,” 
remarked Sailor Ben apologetically, “ ’specially 
when the yarn is all about a man as has made 
a fool of hisself, an’ ’specially when that man ’s 
name is Benjamin Watson.” 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Captain Nutter, rapping on 
the table encouragingly. 

“ Thankee, sir, thankee. I go back to the 
time when Kitty an’ me was livin’ in lodgin’s 
by the dock in New York. We was as happy, 
sir, as two porpusses, which they toil not 
neither do they spin. But when I seed the 
money gittin’ low in the locker — Kitty’s star- 
board stockin’, savin’ your presence, marm — 
I got down-hearted like, seein’ as I should be 
obleeged to skip agin, for it did n’t seem as I 
could do much ashore. An’ then the sea was 
my nat’ral spear of action. I was n’t exactly 
born on it, look you, but I fell into it the 
fust time I was let out arter my birth. My 
mother slipped her cable for a heavenly port 
afore I was old enough to hail her ; so I larnt 
to look on the ocean for a sort of stepmother 
— an’ a precious hard one she has been to me. 

“ The idee of leavin’ Kitty so soon arter our 
marriage went agin my grain considerable. I 
cruised along the docks for somethin’ to do in 


190 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


the way of stevedore ; an’ though I picked up 
a stray job here and there, I did n’t arn enough 
to buy ship-bisket for a rat, let alone feedin' 
two human mouths. There was n’t nothin' 
honest I would n’t have turned a hand to ; but 
the ’longshoremen gobbled up all the work, an’ 
a outsider like me did n’t stand a show. 

“ Things got from bad to worse ; the month's 
rent took all our cash except a dollar or so, an' 
the sky looked kind o’ squally fore an’ aft. 
Well, I set out one mornin’ — that identical 
unlucky mornin’ — determined to come back 
an’ toss some pay into Kitty’s lap, if I had to 
sell my jacket for it. I spied a brig unloadin' 
coal at pier No. 47 — how well I remembers 
it ! I hailed the mate, an’ offered myself for a 
coal-heaver. But I was n’t wanted, as he told 
me civilly enough, which was better treatment 
than usual. As I turned off rather glum I was 
signalled by one of them sleek, smooth-spoken 
rascals with a white hat an’ a weed on it, as is 
always goin’ about the piers a-seekin’ who they 
may devower. 

“ We sailors know ’em for rascals from stem 
to starn, but somehow every fresh one fleeces 
us jest as his mate did afore him. We don’t 
larn nothin’ by exper’ence ; we 're jest no bet- 
ter than a lot of babbys with no brains. 

“ ‘ Good-mornin’, my man,’ sez the chap, as 
iley as you please. 



THE KITCHEN 









THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


191 

“ * Mornin’, sir,’ sez I. 

“ * Lookin’ for a job ? ’ sez he. 

“ ‘ Through the big end of a telescope,’ sez I 
— meanin’ that the chances for a job looked 
very small from my pint of view. 

" ‘ You ’re the man for my money,’ sez he, 
smilin’ as innocent as a cherubim ; ‘ jest step 
in here, till we talk it over.’ 

“ So I goes with him like a nat’ral-born idiot, 
into a little grocery-shop near by, where we 
sets down at a table with a bottle atween us. 
Then it comes out as there is a New Bedford 
whaler about to start for the fishin’-grounds, 
an’ jest one able-bodied sailor like me is wanted 
to make up the crew. Would I go ? Yes, I 
would n’t on no terms. 

“ 4 1 ’ll bet you fifty dollars,’ sez he, ‘ that 
you ’ll come back fust mate.’ 

“ ‘ I ’ll bet you a hundred,’ sez I, ‘ that I 
don't, for I’ve signed papers as keeps me 
ashore, an’ the parson has witnessed the deed.’ 

“ So we sat there, he urgin’ me to ship, an’ 
I chaffin’ him cheerful over the bottle. 

“ Arter a while I begun to feel a little queer ; 
things got foggy in my upper works, an’ I 
remembers, faintlike, of signin’ a paper ; then 
I remembers bein’ in a small boat ; and then I 
remembers nothin’ until I heard the mate’s 
whistle pipin’ all hands on deck. I tumbled 


192 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


up with the rest, an’ there I was — on board 
of a whaler outward bound for a three years* 
cruise, an’ my dear little lass ashore awaitin’ 
for me.” 

“ Miserable wretch ! ” said Miss Abigail, in 
a voice that vibrated among the tin platters on 
the dresser. This was Miss Abigail’s way of 
testifying her sympathy. 

“ Thankee, marm,” returned Sailor Ben 
doubtfully. 

“No talking to the man at the wheel,” cried 
the Captain. Upon which we all laughed. 
“ Spin ! ” added my grandfather. 

Sailor Ben resumed — 

“ I leave you to guess the wretchedness as 
fell upon me, for I ’ve not got the gift to tell 
you. There I was down on the ship’s books 
for a three years’ viage, an’ no help for it. I 
feel nigh to six hundred years old when I think 
how long that viage was. There is n’t no 
hour-glass as runs slow enough to keep a tally 
of the slowness of them fust hours. But I 
done my duty like a man, seein’ there was n’t 
no way of gittin’ out of it. I told my ship- 
mates of the trick as had been played on me, 
an’ they tried to cheer me up a bit ; but I was 
sore sorrowful for a long spell. Many a night 
on watch I put my face in my hands and 
sobbed for thinkin’ of the little woman left 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


193 

among the land-sharks, an’ no man to have an 
eye on her, God bless her ! ” 

Here Kitty softly drew her chair nearer to 
Sailor Ben, and rested one hand on his arm. 

“ Our adventures among the whales, I take 
it, does n’t consarn the present company here 
assembled. So I give that the go-by. There ’s 
an end to everythin’, even to a whalin’ viage. 
My heart all but choked me the day we put 
into New Bedford with our cargo of ile. I got 
my three years’ pay in a lump, an’ made for 
New York like a flash of lightnin’. The people 
hove to and looked at me, as I rushed through 
the streets like a madman, until I came to the 
spot where the lodgin’-house stood on South 
Street. But, Lord love ye, there was no sech 
lodgin’-house there, but a great new brick 
shop. 

“ I made bold to go in an’ ask arter the old 
place, but nobody knowed nothin’ about it, save 
as it had been torn down two years or more. I 
was adrift now, for I had reckoned all them 
days and nights on gittin’ word of Kitty from 
Dan Shackford, the man as kept the lodgin’. 

“ As I stood there with all the wind knocked 
out of my sails, the idee of runnin’ alongside 
the perlice-station popped into my head. The 
perlice was likely to know the latitude of a 
man like Dan Shackford who was n’t over an* 


194 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


above respecktible. They did know — he had 
died in the Tombs jail that day twelvemonth. 
A coincydunce, was n’t it ? I was ready to drop 
when they told me this ; howsomever, I bore 
up an’ give the chief a notion of the fix I was 
in. He writ a notice which I put into the news- 
papers every day for three months ; but nothin’ 
come of it. I cruised over the city week in and 
week out ; I went to every sort of place where 
they hired women hands ; I did n’t leave a 
think undone that an uneddicated man could 
do. But nothin’ come of it. I don’t believe 
there was a wretcheder soul in that big city of 
wretchedness than me. Sometimes I wanted 
to lay down in the streets and die. 

“ Driftin’ disconsolate one day among the 
shippin’, who should I overhaul but the identi- 
cal smooth-spoken chap with a white hat an’ a 
weed on it ! I did n’t know if there was any 
sperit left in me, till I clapped eye on his very 
onpleasant countenance. ‘ You villain ! ’ sez 
I, ‘ where ’s my little Irish lass as you dragged 
me away from ? ’ an’ I lighted on him, hat and 
all, like that ! ” 

Here Sailor Ben brought his fist down on the 
deal table with the force of a sledge-hammer. 
Miss Abigail gave a start, and the ale leaped up 
in the pitcher like a miniature fountain. 

“ I begs your parden, ladies and gentlemen ; 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


195 

but the thought of that feller with his ring an’ 
his watch-chain an’ his walrus face is alius too 
many for me. I was for pitchin’ him into the 
North River, when a perliceman prevented me 
from benefitin’ the human family. I had to pay 
five dollars for hittin’ the chap (they said it was 
salt and buttery), an’ that ’s what I call a neat, 
genteel luxury. It was worth double the money 
jest to see that white hat, with a weed on it, 
layin’ on the wharf like a busted accordiun. 

“ Arter months of useless sarch, I went to 
sea agin. I never got into a foren port but I 
kept a watch out for Kitty. Once I thought I 
seed her in Liverpool, but it was only a gal as 
looked like her. The numbers of women in 
different parts of the world as looked like her 
was amazin’. So a good many years crawled by, 
an’ I wandered from place to place, never givin’ 
up the sarch. I might have been chief mate 
scores of times, may be master ; but I had n’t 
no ambition. I seed many strange things in 
them years — outlandish people an’ cities, 
storms, shipwracks, an’ battles. I seed many 
a true mate go down, an’ sometimes I envied 
them what went to their rest. But these things 
is neither here nor there. 

“ About a year ago I shipped on board the 
Belphoebe yonder, an’ of all the strange winds 
as ever blowed, the strangest an’ the best was 


196 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

the wind as blowed me to this here blessed 
spot. I can’t be too thankful. That I ’m as 
thankful as it is possible for an uneddicated 
man to be, He knows as reads the heart of 
all.” 

Here ended Sailor Ben’s yarn, which I have 
written down in his own homely words as nearly 
as I can recall them. After he had finished, the 
Captain shook hands with him and served out 
the ale. 

As Kitty was about to drink, she paused, 
rested the cup on her knee, and asked what day 
of the month it was. 

“The twenty-seventh,” said the Captain, 
wondering what she was driving at. 

“ Then,” cried Kitty, “ it ’s ten years and a 
day this night sence ” — 

“ Since what ? ” asked my grandfather. 

“ Sence the little woman and I got spliced ! ” 
cried Sailor Ben. “ There ’s another coincy- 
dunce for you, if you ’re wanting anything in 
that line.” 

On hearing this we all clapped hands, and 
the Captain, with a degree of ceremony that 
was almost painful, drank a bumper to the 
health and happiness of the bride and bride- 
groom. 

It was a pleasant sight to see the two old 
lovers sitting side by side, in spite of all, drink- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


197 


ing from the same little cup — a battered zinc 
dipper which Sailor Ben had unslung from a 
strap round his waist. I think I never saw him 
without this dipper and a sheath-knife sus- 
pended just back of his hip, ready for any con- 
vivial occasion. 

We had a merry time of it. The Captain 
was in great force this evening, and not only 
related his famous exploit in the war of 1812, 
but regaled the company with a dashing sea- 
song from Mr. Shakespeare’s play of The Tem- 
pest. My grandfather — however it came about 
— was a great reader of Shakespeare. He had 
a mellow tenor voice (not Shakespeare, but the 
Captain), and rolled out the verse with a will — 

“ The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, 

The gunner, and his mate, 

Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, 

But none of us cared for Kate.” 

“ A very good song, and very well sung,” 
says Sailor Ben ; “ but some of us does care for 
Kate. Is this Mr. Shawkspear a seafarin’ man, 
sir ? " 

“ Not at present,” replied the Captain, with 
a monstrous twinkle in his eye. 

The clock was striking ten when the party 
broke up. The Captain walked to The Sailor’s 
Rest with his guest, in order to question him 
regarding his future movements. 


198 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

“ Well, sir,” said he, “ I ain’t as young as I 
was, an’ I don’t cal’ulate to go to sea no more. 
I proposes to drop anchor here, an’ hug the 
land until the old hulk goes to pieces. I ’ve 
got two or three thousand dollars in the locker, 
an’ expects to get on uncommon comfortable 
without askin’ no odds from the Assylum for 
Decayed Mariners.” 

My grandfather indorsed the plan warmly, 
and Benjamin Watson did drop anchor in Riv- 
ermouth, where he speedily became one of the 
institutions of the town. 

His first step was to buy a small one-story 
cottage located at the head of the wharf, 
within gunshot of the Nutter House. To the 
great amusement of my grandfather, Sailor 
Ben painted the cottage a light sky-blue, and 
ran a broad black stripe around it just under 
the eaves. In this stripe he painted white 
port-holes, at regular distances, making his 
residence look as much like a man-of-war as 
possible. With a short flagstaff projecting 
over the door like a bowsprit, the effect was 
quite magical. My description of the exterior 
of this palatial residence is complete when I 
add that the proprietor nailed a horseshoe 
against the front door to keep off the witches 
— a very necessary precaution in these lati- 
tudes. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


199 


The inside of Sailor Ben’s abode was not less 
striking than the outside. The cottage con- 
tained two rooms ; the one opening on the 
wharf he called his cabin ; here he ate and 
slept. His few tumblers and a frugal collec- 
tion of crockery were set in a rack suspended 
over the table, which had a cleat of wood nailed 
round the edge to prevent the dishes from slid- 
ing off in case of a heavy sea. Hanging against 
the walls were three or four highly colored 
prints of celebrated frigates, and a lithograph 
picture of a rosy young woman insufficiently 
clad in the American flag. This was labelled 
“ Kitty,” though I am sure it looked no more 
like her than I did. A walrus-tooth with an 
Esquimau engraved on it, a shark’s jaw, and 
the blade of a swordfish were among the envi- 
able decorations of this apartment. In one 
corner stood his bunk, or bed, and in the other 
his well-worn sea-chest, a perfect Pandora’s 
box of mysteries. You would have thought 
yourself in the cabin of a real ship. 

The little room aft, separated from the cabin 
by a sliding door, was the caboose. It held a 
cooking-stove, pots, pans, and groceries ; also 
a lot of fishing-lines and coils of tarred twine, 
which made the place smell like a forecastle, 
and a delightful smell it is — to those who 
fancy it. 


200 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Kitty did not leave our service, but played 
housekeeper for both establishments, returning 
at night to Sailor Ben’s. He shortly added a 
wherry to his worldly goods, and in the fishing 
season made a very handsome income. During 
the winter he employed himself manufacturing 
crab-nets, for which he found no lack of cus- 
tomers. 

His popularity among the boys was immense. 
A jackknife in his expert hand was a whole 
chest of tools. He could whittle out anything 
from a wooden chain to a Chinese pagoda, or 
a full-rigged seventy-four a foot long. To own 
a ship of Sailor Ben’s building was to be ex- 
alted above your fellow-creatures. He did not 
carve many, and those he refused to sell, choos- 
ing to present them to his young friends, of 
whom Tom Bailey, you may be sure, was one. 

How delightful it was of winter nights to sit 
in his cosey cabin, close to the ship’s stove (he 
would never hear of having a fireplace), and 
listen to Sailor Ben’s yarns ! In the early sum- 
mer twilights, when he sat on the doorstep 
splicing a rope or mending a net, he always 
had a bevy of blooming young faces alongside. 

The dear old fellow ! How tenderly the 
years touched him after this ! — all the more 
tenderly, it seemed, for having roughed him so 
cruelly in other days. 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOW WE ASTONISHED RIVERMOUTH 

Sailor Ben’s arrival partly drove the New 
Orleans project from my brain. Besides, there 
was just then a certain movement on foot by 
the Centipede Club which helped to engross 
my attention. 

Pepper Whitcomb took the Captain’s veto 
philosophically, observing that he thought from 
the first the governor would not let me go. I 
do not think Pepper was quite honest in that. 

But to the subject in hand. 

Among the few changes that have taken 
place in Rivermouth during the past twenty 
years there is one which I regret. I lament 
the removal of all those varnished iron cannon 
which used to do duty as posts at the corners 
of streets leading from the river. They were 
quaintly ornamental, each set upon end with a 
solid shot soldered into its mouth, and gave to 
that part of the town a picturesqueness very 
poorly atoned for by the conventional wooden 
stakes that have deposed them. 


202 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


These guns {“ old sogers ” the boys called 
them) had their story, like everything else in 
Rivermouth. When that everlasting last war 
— the war of 1812, I mean — came to an end, 
all the brigs, schooners, and barks fitted out at 
this port as privateers were as eager to get rid 
of their useless twelve-pounders and swivels as 
they had previously been to obtain them. Many 
of the pieces had cost large sums, and now they 
were little better than so much crude iron — not 
so good, in fact, for they were clumsy things 
to break up and melt over. The government 
did not want them ; private citizens did not 
want them ; they were a drug in the market 

But there was one man, ridiculous beyond 
his generation, who got it into his head that 
a fortune was to be made out of these same 
guns. To buy them all, to hold on to them 
until war was declared again (as he had no 
doubt it would be in a few months), and then 
sell out at fabulous prices — this was the dar- 
ing idea that addled the pate of Silas Trefe- 
then, “Dealer in E. & W. I. Goods and Gro- 
ceries,” as the faded sign over his shop-door 
informed the public. 

Silas went shrewdly to work, buying up every 
old cannon he could lay hands on. His back 
yard was .soon crowded with broken-down gun- 
carriages, and his barn with guns, like an 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


203 


arsenal. When Silas’s purpose got wind it 
was astonishing how valuable that thing be- 
came which just now was worth nothing at all. 

“ Ha, ha ! ” thought Silas ; “somebody else 
is tryin’ tu git control of the market. But I 
guess I ’ve got the start of him .” 

So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes 
paying double the original price of the article. 
People in the neighboring towns collected all 
the worthless ordnance they could find, and 
sent it by the cart-load to Rivermouth. 

When his barn was full, Silas began piling 
the rubbish in his cellar, then in his parlor. 
He mortgaged the stock of his grocery-store, 
mortgaged his house, his barn, his horse, and 
would have mortgaged himself if any one would 
have taken him as security, in order to carry 
on the grand speculation. He was a ruined 
man, and as happy as a lark. 

Surely poor Sil; cracked, like the ma- 



More or less crazy 


jority of his own 


he must have beenv always. Years before this 
he purchased an elegant rosewood coffin, and 
kept it in one of the spare rooms in his resi- 
dence. He even had his name engraved on 
the silver-plate, leaving a blank after the word 
“ Died.” 

The blank was filled up in due time, and 
well it was for Silas that he secured so stylish 


204 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


a coffin in his opulent days, for when he died 
his worldly wealth would not have bought him 
a pine box, to say nothing of rosewood. He 
never gave up expecting a war with Great 
Britain. Hopeful and radiant to the last, his 
dying words were, England — war — few days 
— great profits ! 

It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, 
who told me the story of Silas Trefethen ; for 
these things happened long before my day. 
Silas died in 1817. 

At Trefethen’s death his unique collection 
came under the auctioneer’s hammer. Some 
of the larger guns were sold to the town, 
and planted at the corners of divers streets ; 
others went off to the iron foundry ; the bal- 
ance, numbering twelve, were dumped down 
on a deserted wharf at the foot of Anchor 
Lane, where, summer after summer, they 
rested at their ease in the grass and fungi, 
pelted in autumn by the rain and annually 
buried by the winter snow. It is with these 
twelve guns that our story has to deal. 

The wharf where they reposed was shut off 
from the street by a high fence — a silent, 
dreamy old wharf, covered with strange weeds 
and mosses. On account of its seclusion and 
the good fishing it afforded, it was much fre- 
quented by us boys. 









AN OLD WHARF 




































































































































































































































A I 
































































































































THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


205 


There we met many an afternoon to throw 
out our lines, or play leap-frog among the rusty 
cannon. They were famous fellows in our 
eyes. What a racket they had made in the 
heyday of their unchastened youth ! What 
stories they might tell now, if their puffy me- 
tallic lips could only speak ! Once they were 
lively talkers enough ; but there the grim sea- 
dogs lay, silent and forlorn in spite of all their 
former growlings. 

They always seemed to me like a lot of ven- 
erable disabled tars, stretched out on a lawn in 
front of a hospital, gazing seaward, and mutely 
lamenting their lost youth. 

But once more they were destined to lift up 
their dolorous voices — once mor6 they keeled 
over and lay speechless for all time. And this 
is how it befell. 

Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, 
and myself were fishing off the wharf one after- 
noon, when a thought flashed upon me like an 
inspiration. 

“ I say, boys ! ” I cried, hauling in my line 
hand over hand, “ I ’ve got something ! ” 

“ What does it pull like, youngster ? ” asked 
Harris, looking down at the taut line and ex- 
pecting to see a big perch at least. 

“ Oh, nothing in the fish way,” I returned, 
laughing ; “ it ’s about the old guns.” 


206 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

“ What about them ? ” 

“ I was thinking what jolly fun it would be 
to set one of the old sogers on his legs and 
serve him out a ration of gunpowder.” 

Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An 
enterprise better suited to the disposition of 
my companions could not have been proposed. 

In a short time we had one of the smaller 
cannon over on its back and were busy scrap- 
ing the green rust from the touch-hole. The 
mould had spiked the gun so effectually, that 
for a while we fancied we should have to give 
up our attempt to resuscitate the old soger. 

“ A long gimlet would clear it out,” said Char- 
ley Marden, “ if we only had one.” 

I looked to see if Sailor Ben’s flag was flying 
at the cabin door, for he always took in the 
colors when he went off fishing. 

“When you want to know if the Admiral’s 
aboard, jest cast an eye to the buntin’, my 
hearties,” says Sailor Ben. 

Sometimes in a jocose mood he called him- 
self the Admiral, and I am sure he deserved to 
be one. The Admiral’s flag was flying, and I 
soon procured a gimlet from his carefully kept 
tool-chest. 

Before long we had the gun in working order. 
A newspaper lashed to the end of a lath served 
as a swab to dust out the bore. Jack Harris 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 207 

blew through the touch-hole and pronounced 
all clear. 

Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we 
turned our attention to the other guns, which 
lay in all sorts of postures in the rank grass. 
Borrowing a rope from Sailor Ben, we managed 
with immense labor to drag the heavy pieces 
into position and place a brick under each muz- 
zle to give it the proper elevation. When we 
beheld them all in a row, like a regular battery, 
we simultaneously conceived an idea, the mag- 
nitude of which struck us dumb for a moment. 

Our first intention was to load and fire a sin- 
gle gun. How feeble and insignificant was 
such a plan compared to that which now sent 
the light dancing into our eyes ! 

“ What could we have been thinking of ? ” 
cried Jack Harris. “ We’ll give ’em a broad- 
side, to be sure, if we die for it ! ” 

We turned to with a will, and before night- 
fall had nearly half the battery overhauled and 
ready for service. To keep the artillery dry we 
stuffed wads of loose hemp into the muzzles, 
and fitted wooden pegs to the touch-holes. 

At recess the next noon the Centipedes met 
in a corner of the school-yard to talk over the 
proposed lark. The original projectors, though 
they would have liked to keep the thing secret, 
were obliged to make a club matter of it, inas- 


208 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

much as funds were required for ammunitioa 
There had been no recent drain on the treasury, 
and the society could well afford to spend a 
few dollars in so notable an undertaking. 

It was unanimously agreed that the plan 
should be carried out in the handsomest man- 
ner, and a subscription to that end was taken 
on the spot. Several of the Centipedes had n’t 
a cent, excepting the one strung around their 
necks ; others, however, were richer. I chanced 
to have a dollar, and it went into the cap quicker 
than lightning. When the club, in view of my 
munificence, voted to name the guns Bailey’s 
Battery, I was prouder than I have ever been 
since over anything. 

The money thus raised, added to that already 
in the treasury, amounted to nine dollars — a 
fortune in those days ; but not more than we 
had use for. This sum was divided into twelve 
parts, for it would not do for one boy to buy all 
the powder, nor even for us all to make our pur- 
chases at the same place. That would excite 
suspicion at any time, particularly at a period 
so remote from the Fourth of July. 

There were only three stores in town licensed 
to sell powder ; that gave each store four cus- 
tomers. Not to run the slightest risk of remark, 
one boy bought his powder on Monday, the 
next boy on Tuesday, and so on until the re- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


209 


quisite quantity was in our possession. This 
we put into a keg and carefully hid in a dry 
spot on the wharf. 

Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, 
which occupied two afternoons, for several of 
the old sogers were in a very congested state 
indeed. Having completed the task, we came 
upon a difficulty. To set off the battery by 
daylight was out of the question ; it must be 
done at night ; it must be done with fuses, for 
no doubt the neighbors would turn out after 
the first two or three shots, and it would not 
pay to be caught in the vicinity. 

Who knew anything about fuses ? Who 
could arrange it so the guns would go off one 
after the other, with an interval of a minute or 
so between ? 

Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse 
lasted a minute ; double the quantity, two min- 
utes ; but practically we were at a standstill. 
There was but one person who could help us in 
this extremity — Sailor Ben. To me was as- 
signed the duty of obtaining what information 
I could from the ex-gunner, it being left to my 
discretion whether or not to intrust him with 
our secret. 

So one evening I dropped into the cabin and 
artfully turned the conversation to fuses in gen- 
eral, and then to particular fuses, but without 


210 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

getting much out of the old boy, who was busy 
making a twine hammock. Finally, I was 
forced to divulge the whole plot. 

The Admiral had a sailor’s love for a joke, 
and entered at once and heartily into our 
scheme. He volunteered to prepare the fuses 
himself, and I left the labor in his hands, hav- 
ing bound him by several extraordinary oaths 
— such as “ Hope-I-may-die ” and “ May I sink 
first ” — not to betray us, come what would. 

This was Monday evening. On Wednesday 
the fuses were ready. That night we were to 
unmuzzle Bailey’s Battery. Mr. Grimshaw felt 
that something was wrong somewhere, for we 
were restless and absent-minded in the classes, 
and the best of us came to grief before the 
morning session was over. When Mr. Grim- 
shaw announced ‘‘Guy Fawkes” as the sub- 
ject for our next composition, you might have 
knocked down the Mystic Twelve with a 
feather. 

The coincidence was certainly curious, but 
when a man has committed, or is about to com- 
mit, an offence, a hundred trifles, which would 
pass unnoticed at another time, seem to point 
at him with convicting fingers. No doubt Guy 
Fawkes himself received many a start after he 
had got his wicked kegs of gunpowder neatly 
piled up under the House of Lords. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


21 1 


Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a 
half-holiday, and the Centipedes assembled in 
my barn to decide on the final arrangements. 
These were as simple as could be. As the 
fuses were connected, it needed but one person 
to fire the train. Hereupon arose a discussion 
as to who was the proper person. Some ar- 
gued that I ought to apply the match, the bat- 
tery being christened after me, and the main 
idea, moreover, being mine. Others advocated 
the claim of Phil Adams as the oldest boy. At 
last we drew lots for the post of honor. 

Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of 
which was written “ Thou art the man,” were 
placed in a quart measure, and thoroughly 
shaken ; then each member stepped up and 
lifted out his destiny. At a given signal we 
opened our billets. “ Thou art the man,” said 
the slip of paper trembling in my fingers. The 
sweets and anxieties of a leader were mine the 
rest of the afternoon. 

Directly after twilight set in, Phil Adams 
stole down to the wharf and fixed the fuses to 
the guns, laying a train of powder from the 
principal fuse to the fence, through a chink of 
which I was to drop the match at midnight. 

At ten o’clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At 
eleven o’clock Rivermouth is as quiet as a coun- 
try churchyard. At twelve o’clock there is 


212 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


nothing left with which to compare the still- 
ness that broods over the little seaport. 

In the midst of this stillness I arose and 
glided out of the house like a phantom bent on 
an evil errand ; like a phantom I flitted through 
the silent street, hardly drawing breath until I 
knelt down beside the fence at the appointed 
place. 

Pausing a moment for my heart to stop 
thumping, I lighted the match and shielded it 
with both hands until it was well under way, 
and then dropped the blazing splinter on the 
slender thread of gunpowder. 

A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all 
was dark again. I peeped through the crevice 
in the fence, and saw the main fuse spitting 
out sparks like a conjurer. Assured that the 
train had not failed, I took to my heels, fearful 
lest the fuse might burn more rapidly than 
we calculated, and cause an explosion before I 
could get home. This, luckily, did not hap- 
pen. There is a special Providence that 
watches over idiots, drunken men, and boys. 

I dodged the ceremony of undressing by 
plunging into bed, jacket, boots, and all. I am 
not sure I took off my cap ; but I know that I 
had hardly pulled the coverlid over me, when 
“ Boom ! ” sounded the first gun of Bailey’s 
Battery. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


213 


I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two 
minutes there was another burst of thunder, 
and then another. The third gun was a tre- 
mendous fellow and fairly shook the house. 

The town was waking up. Windows were 
thrown open right and left, and neighbors 
called to one another across the streets asking . 
what that firing was for. 

‘‘Boom ! ” went gun number four. 

I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, 
for I heard the Captain feeling his way along 
the wall to my chamber. I was half undressed 
by the time he found the knob of the door. 

“ I say, sir,” I cried, “ do you hear those 
guns ? ” 

“Not being deaf, I do,” said the Captain 
a little tartly — any reflection on his hearing 
always nettled him ; “ but what on earth they 
are for I can’t conceive. You had better get 
up and dress yourself.” 

“I ’m nearly dressed, sir.” 

“Boom! Boom!” — two of the guns had 
gone off together. 

The door of Miss Abigail’s bedroom opened 
hastily, and that pink of maidenly propriety 
stepped out into the hall in her night-gown — 
the only indecorous thing I ever knew her to 
do. She held a lighted candle in her hand 
and looked like a very aged Lady Macbeth. 


214 THE story of a bad boy 

“ Oh, Dan’el, this is dreadful ! What do you 
suppose it means ? ” 

“ I really can’t suppose,” said the Captain, 
rubbing his ear ; “ but I guess it ’s over now.” 

“ Boom ! ” said Bailey’s Battery. 

Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half 
the male population were in the streets, run- 
ning different ways, for the firing seemed 
to proceed from opposite points of the town. 
Everybody waylaid everybody else with ques- 
tions ; but as no one knew what was the occa- 
sion of the tumult, persons who were not usually 
nervous began to be oppressed by the mystery. 

Some thought the town was being bom- 
barded ; some thought the world was coming 
to an end, as the pious and ingenious Mr. Mil- 
ler had recently predicted it would ; but those 
who could not form any theory whatever were 
the mpst perplexed. 

In the meanwhile Bailey’s Battery bellowed 
away at regular intervals. The greatest confu- 
sion reigned everywhere by this time. Persons 
with lanterns rushed hither and thither. The 
town watch had turned out to a man, and 
marched off, in admirable order, in the wrong 
direction. Discovering their mistake, they re- 
traced their steps, and got down to the wharf 
just as the last cannon belched forth its light- 
ning. 



4 


AUNT ABIGAIL'S ROOM 








THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


215 


A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated 
over Anchor Lane, obscuring the starlight. 
Two or three hundred persons, in various 
stages of excitement, crowded about the upper 
end of the wharf, not liking to advance farther 
until they were satisfied that the explosions 
were over. A board was here and there blown 
from the fence, and through the openings thus 
afforded a few of the more daring spirits at 
last ventured to crawl. 

The cause of the racket soon transpired. A 
suspicion that they had been sold gradually 
dawned on the Rivermouthians. Many were 
exceedingly indignant, and declared that no 
penalty was severe enough for those concerned 
in such a prank ; others — and these were the 
very persons who had been terrified nearly out 
of their wits — had the assurance to laugh, 
saying that they knew all along that it was only 
a trick. 

The town watch boldly took possession of 
the ground, and the crowd began to disperse. 
Knots of gossips lingered here and there near 
the place, indulging in vain surmises as to who 
the invisible gunners could be. 

There was no more noise that night, but 
many a timid person lay awake expecting a 
renewal of the mysterious cannonading. The 
Oldest Inhabitant refused to go to bed on any 


216 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

terms, but persisted in sitting up in a rocking, 
chair, with his hat and mittens on, until day- 
break. 

I thought I should never get to sleep. The 
moment I drifted off in a doze I fell to laugh- 
ing and woke myself up. But towards morning 
slumber overtook me, and I had a series of dis- 
agreeable dreams, in one of which I was waited 
upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen with an 
exorbitant bill for the use of his guns. In an- 
other, I was dragged before a court-martial 
and sentenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig 
and three-cornered cocked hat, to be shot to 
death by Bailey’s Battery — a sentence which 
Sailor Ben was about to execute with his own 
hand, when I suddenly opened my eyes and 
found the sunshine lying pleasantly across my 
face. I tell you I was glad ! 

That unaccountable fascination which leads 
the guilty to hover about the spot where his 
crime was committed drew me down to the 
wharf as soon as I was dressed. Phil Adams, 
Jack Harris, and others of the conspirators 
were already there, examining with a mingled 
feeling of curiosity and apprehension the havoc 
accomplished by the battery. 

The fence was badly shattered and the 
ground ploughed up for several yards round 
the place where the guns formerly lay — for* 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


217 


merly lay, for now they were scattered every 
which way. There was scarcely a gun that had 
not burst. Here was one ripped open from 
muzzle to breech, and there was another with 
its mouth blown into the shape of a trumpet. 
Three of the guns had disappeared bodily, but 
on looking over the edge of the wharf we saw 
them standing on end in the tide-mud. They 
had popped overboard in their excitement. 

“ I tell you what, fellows,” whispered Phil 
Adams, “ it is lucky we did n’t try to touch ’em 
off with punk. They ’d have blown us all to 
flinders.” 

The destruction of Bailey’s Battery was not, 
unfortunately, the only catastrophe. A frag- 
ment of one of the cannon had carried away 
the chimney of Sailor Ben’s cabin. He was 
very mad at first, but having prepared the fuse 
himself he did not dare complain openly. 

“ I ’d have taken a reef in the blessed stove- 
pipe,” said the Admiral, gazing ruefully at the 
smashed chimney, “ if I had known as ho\V 
the Flagship was a-goin’ to be under fire.” 

The next day he rigged up an iron funnel, 
which, being in sections, could be detached 
and taken in at a moment’s notice. On the 
whole, I think he was resigned to the demoli- 
tion of his brick chimney. The stove-pipe was 
a great deal more ship-shape. 


218 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


The town was not so easily appeased. The 
selectmen determined to make an example of 
the guilty parties, and offered a reward for 
their arrest, holding out a promise of pardon 
to any one of the offenders who would furnish 
information against the rest. But there were 
no faint hearts among the Centipedes. Sus- 
picion rested for a while on several persons — 
on the soldiers at the fort ; on a crazy fellow, 
known about town as “ Bottle-Nose ; ” and at 
last on Sailor Ben. 

“ Shiver my timbers ! ” cries that deeply in- 
jured individual. “Do you suppose, sir, as I 
have lived to sixty year, an’ ain’t got no more 
sense than to go for to blaze away at my own 
upper riggin’ ? It does n’t stand to reason.” 

It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. 
Watson would maliciously knock over his own 
chimney, and Lawyer Hackett, who had the 
case in hand, bowed himself out of the Admi- 
ral’s cabin, convinced that the right man had 
not been discovered. 

People living by the sea are always more or 
less superstitious. Stories of spectre ships and 
mysterious beacons, that lure vessels out of 
their course and wreck them on unknown 
reefs, were among the stock legends of River- 
mouth ; and not a few persons in the town 
were ready to attribute the firing of those guns 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


219 


to some supernatural agency. The Oldest In- 
habitant remembered that when he was a boy 
a dim-looking sort of schooner hove to in the 
offing one foggy afternoon, fired off a single 
gun that did not make any report, and then 
crumbled to nothing, spar, mast, and hulk, like 
a piece of burnt paper. 

The authorities, however, were of the opinion 
that human hands had something to do with 
the explosions, and they resorted to deep-laid 
stratagems to get hold of the said hands. One 
of their traps came very near catching us. 
They artfully caused an old brass fieldpiece to 
be left on a wharf near the scene of our late 
operations. Nothing in the world but the lack 
of money to buy powder saved us from falling 
into the clutches of the two watchmen who 
lay secreted for a week in a neighboring sail- 
loft. 

It was many a day before the midnight bom- 
bardment ceased to be the town-talk. The 
trick was so audacious and on so grand a scale 
that nobody thought for an instant of connect- 
ing us lads with it. Suspicion at last grew 
weary of lighting on the wrong person, and as 
conjecture — like the physicians in the epitaph 
— was in vain, the Rivermouthians gave up 
the idea of finding out who had astonished 
them. 


220 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

They never did find out, and never will, un- 
less they read this veracious history. If the 
selectmen are still disposed to punish the 
malefactors, I can supply Lawyer Hackett 
with evidence enough to convict Pepper Whit- 
comb, Phil Adams, Charley Marden, and the 
other honorable members of the Centipede 
Club. But really I do not think it would pay 
now. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO 

If the reader supposes that I lived all this 
while in Rivermouth without falling a victim 
to one or more of the young ladies attending 
Miss Dorothy Gibbs’s Female Institute, why, 
then, all I have to say is the reader exhibits 
his ignorance of human nature. 

Miss Gibbs’s seminary was located within a 
few minutes’ walk of the Temple Grammar 
School, and numbered about thirty-five pupils, 
the majority of whom boarded at the Hall — 
Primrose Hall, as Miss Dorothy prettily called 
it. The Primroses, as we called them , ranged 
from seven years of age to sweet seventeen, 
and a prettier group of sirens never got to- 
gether even in Rivermouth, for Rivermouth, 
you should know, is famous for its pretty girls. 

There were tall girls and short girls, rosy 
girls and pale girls, and girls as brown as ber- 
ries ; girls like Amazons, slender girls, weird 
and winning like Undine, girls with black 
tresses, girls with auburn ringlets, girls with 


222 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

every tinge of golden hair. To behold Miss 
Dorothy’s young ladies of a Sunday morning 
walking to church two by two, the smallest 
toddling at the end of the procession, like the 
bobs at the tail of a kite, was a spectacle to 
fill with tender emotion the least susceptible 
heart. To see Miss Dorothy marching grimly 
at the head of her light infantry, was to feel 
the hopelessness of making an attack on any 
part of the column. 

She was a perfect dragon of watchfulness. 
The most unguarded lifting of an eyelash in the 
fluttering battalion was sufficient to put her 
on the lookout. She had had experiences with 
the male sex, this Miss Dorothy so prim and 
grim. It was whispered that her heart was a 
tattered album scrawled over with love-lines, 
but that she had shut up the volume long 
ago. 

There was a tradition that she had been 
crossed in love ; but it was the faintest of tra- 
ditions. A gay young lieutenant of marines 
had flirted with her at a country ball (a. d. 
181 1), and then marched carelessly away at 
the head of his company to the shrill music of 
the fife, without so much as a sigh for the girl 
he left behind him. The years rolled on, the 
gallant gay Lothario — which was not his name 

married, became a father, and then a grand- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


223 

father ; and at the period at which I am speak- 
ing his grandchild was actually one of Miss 
Dorothy’s young ladies. So, at least, ran the 
story. 

The lieutenant himself was dead these many 
years ; but Miss Dorothy never got over his du- 
plicity. She was convinced that the sole aim 
of mankind was to win the unguarded affection 
of maidens, and then march off treacherously 
with flying colors to the heartless music of the 
drum and fife. To shield the inmates of Prim- 
rose Hall from the bitter influences that had 
blighted her own early affections was Miss Dor- 
othy’s mission in life. 

“ No wolves prowling about my lambs, if 
you please,” said Miss Dorothy. “ I will not 
allow it.” 

She was as good as her word. I do not 
think the boy lives who ever set foot within 
the limits of Primrose Hall while the seminary 
was under her charge. Perhaps if Miss Doro- 
thy had given her young ladies a little more 
liberty, they would not have thought it “ such 
fun ” to make eyes over the white lattice fence 
at the young gentlemen of the Temple Gram- 
mar School. I say perhaps ; for it is one thing 
to manage thirty-five young ladies and quite 
another thing to talk about it. 

But all Miss Dorothy’s vigilance could not 


224 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

prevent the young folks from meeting in the 
town now and then, nor could her utmost inge- 
nuity interrupt postal arrangements. There 
was no end of notes passing between the stu- 
dents and the Primroses. Notes tied to the 
heads of arrows were shot into dormitory win- 
dows ; notes were tucked under fences, and hid- 
den in the trunks of decayed trees. Every thick 
place in the boxwood hedge that surrounded 
the seminary was a possible post-office. 

It was a terrible shock to Miss Dorothy the 
day she unearthed a nest of letters in one of 
the huge wooden urns surmounting the gate- 
way that led to her dove-cot. It was a bitter 
moment to Miss Phoebe and Miss Candace and 
Miss Hesba, when they had their locks of hair 
grimly handed back to them by Miss Gibbs in 
the presence of the whole school. Girls whose 
locks of hair had run the blockade in safety 
were particularly severe on the offenders. But 
it did not stop other notes and other tresses, 
and I would like to know what can stop them 
while the earth holds together. 

Now when I first came to Rivermouth I 
looked upon girls as rather tame company ; I 
had not a spark of sentiment concerning them ; 
but seeing my comrades sending and receiving 
mysterious epistles, wearing bits of ribbon in 
their buttonholes, and leaving packages of 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


225 


confectionery (generally lemon-drops) in the 
hollow trunks of trees — why, I felt that this 
was the proper thing to do. I resolved, as a 
matter of duty, to fall in love with somebody, 
and I did not care in the least who it was. In 
much the same mood that Don Quixote selected 
the Dulcinea del Toboso for his lady-love, I 
singled out one of Miss Dorothy’s incompa- 
rable young ladies for mine. 

I debated a long while whether I should not 
select two, but at last settled down on one — a 
pale little girl with blue eyes, named Alice. I 
shall not make a long story of this, for Alice 
made short work of me. She was secretly in 
love with Pepper Whitcomb. This occasioned 
a temporary coolness between Pepper and my- 
self. 

Not disheartened, however, I placed Laura 
Rice — I believe it was Laura Rice — in the 
vacant niche. The new idol was more cruel 
than the old. The former frankly sent me to 
the right-about, but the latter was a deceitful 
lot. She wore my nosegay in her dress at the 
evening service (the Primroses were marched 
to church three times every Sunday), she 
penned me the daintiest of notes, she sent me 
the glossiest of ringlets (cut, as I afterwards 
found out, from the stupid head of Miss Gibbs’s 
chambermaid), and at the same time was hold- 


226 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

ing me and my pony up to ridicule in a series 
of letters written to Jack Harris. It was Har- 
ris himself who kindly opened my eyes. 

“ I tell you what, Bailey,” said that young 
gentleman, “ Laura is an old veteran, and car- 
ries too many guns for a youngster. She can’t 
resist a flirtation ; I believe she ’d flirt with an 
infant in arms. There 's hardly a fellow in the 
school that has n’t worn her colors and some 
of her hair. She does n’t give out any more of 
her own hair now. She had to stop that. The 
demand was greater than the supply, you see. 
It ’s all very well to correspond with Laura, 
but as to looking for anything serious from 
her, the knowing ones don’t. Hope I have n’t 
hurt your feelings, old boy ” (that was a sooth- 
ing stroke of flattery to call me “ old boy ”), 
“ but ’t was my duty as a friend and a Centi- 
pede to let you know who you were dealing 
with.” 

Such was the advice given me by that time- 
stricken, careworn, and embittered man of the 
world, who was sixteen years old if he was a 
day. 

I dropped Laura. In the course of the next 
twelve months I had perhaps three or four sim- 
ilar experiences, and the conclusion was forced 
upon me that I was not a boy likely to distin- 
guish myself in this branch of business. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


227 


I fought shy of Primrose Hall from that mo« 
ment. Smiles were smiled over the boxwood 
hedge, and little hands were occasionally kissed 
to me ; but I only winked my eye patroniz- 
ingly, and passed on. I never renewed tender 
relations with Miss Gibbs’s young ladies. All 
this occurred during my first year and a half at 
Rivermouth. 

Between my studies at school, my outdoor 
recreations, and the hurts my vanity received, 
I managed to escape for the time being any very 
serious attack of that love fever which, like the 
measles, is almost certain to seize upon a boy 
sooner or later. I was not to be an exception. 
I was merely biding my time. The incidents 
I have now to relate took place shortly after 
the events described in the last chapter. 

\ 

In a life so tranquil and circumscribed as 
ours in the Nutter House, a visitor was a nov- 
elty of no little importance. The whole house- 
hold awoke from its quietude one morning 
when the Captain announced that a young 
niece of his from New York was to spend a 
few weeks with us. 

The blue chintz room, into which a ray of 
sun was never allowed to penetrate, was thrown 
open and dusted, and its mouldy air made 
sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses placed on 


228 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


the old-fashioned bureau. Kitty was busy all 
the forenoon washing off the sidewalk and 
sand-papering the great brass knocker on our 
front door ; and Miss Abigail was up to her 
elbows in a pigeon pie. 

I felt sure it was for no ordinary person that 
all these preparations were in progress ; and I 
was right. Miss Nelly Glent worth was no or- 
dinary person. I shall never believe she was. 
There may have been lovelier women, though 
I have never seen them ; there may have been 
more brilliant women, though it has not been 
my fortune to meet them ; but that there was 
ever a more charming one than Nelly Glent- 
worth is a proposition against which I contend. 

I do not love her now. I do not think of 
her once in five years ; and yet it would give 
me a turn if in the course of my daily walk I 
should suddenly come upon her eldest boy. I 
may say that her eldest boy was not playing a 
prominent part in this life when I first made 
her acquaintance. 

It was on a drizzling, cheerless afternoon to- 
wards the end of summer that a hack drew up 
at the door of the Nutter House. The Captain 
and Miss Abigail hastened into the hall on 
hearing the carriage stop. In a moment more 
Miss Nelly Glentworth was seated in our sit- 
ting-room undergoing a critical examination at 



THE BLUE CHINTZ ROOM 



























































4 I 



























































































THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


229 


the hands of a small boy who lounged uncom- 
fortably on a settee between the windows. 

The small boy considered himself a judge of 
girls, and he rapidly came to the following con- 
clusions : That Miss Nelly was about nineteen ; 
that she had not given away much of her back 
hair, which hung in two massive chestnut 
braids over her shoulders ; that she was a shade 
too pale and a trifle too tall ; that her hands 
were nicely shaped and her feet much too 
diminutive for daily use. He furthermore ob- 
served that her voice was musical, and that 
her face lighted up with an indescribable 
brightness when she smiled. 

On the whole, the small boy liked her well 
enough ; and, satisfied that she was not a per- 
son to be afraid of, but, on the contrary, one 
who might turn out to be quite agreeable, he 
departed to keep an appointment with his 
friend Sir Pepper Whitcomb. 

But the next morning, when Miss Glent- 
worth came down to breakfast in a purple 
dress, her face as fresh as one of the moss- 
roses on the bureau up-stairs, and her laugh 
as contagious as the merriment of a robin, the 
small boy experienced a strange sensation, and 
mentally compared her with the loveliest of 
Miss Gibbs’s young ladies, and found those 
young ladies wanting in the balance. 


230 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


A night’s rest had wrought a wonderful 
change in Miss Nelly. The pallor and weari- 
ness of the journey had passed away. I looked 
at her through the toast-rack and thought I 
had never seen anything more winning than 
her smile. 

After breakfast she went out with me to the 
stable to see Gypsy, and the three of us be- 
came friends then and there. Nelly was the 
only girl that Gypsy ever took the slightest 
notice of. 

It chanced to be a half-holiday, and a base- 
ball match of unusual interest was to come off 
on the school ground that afternoon ; but, 
somehow, I did not go. I hung about the 
house abstractedly. The Captain went up 
town, and Miss Abigail was busy in the kitchen 
making immortal gingerbread. I drifted into 
the sitting-room, and had our guest all to my- 
self for I do not know how many hours. It 
was twilight, I recollect, when the Captain 
returned with letters for Miss Nelly. 

Many a time after that I sat with her 
through the dreamy September afternoons. If 
I had played baseball it would have been much 
better for me. 

Those first days of Miss Nelly’s visit are 
very misty in my remembrance. I try in vain 
to remember just when I began to fall in love 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


231 


with her. Whether the spell worked upon me 
gradually or fell upon me all at once, I do not 
know. I only know that it seemed to me as 
if I had always loved her. Things that took 
place before she came were dim to me, like 
events that had occurred in the Middle Ages. 

Nelly was at least five years my senior. But 
what of that ? Adam is the only man I ever 
heard of who did not in early youth fall in love 
with a woman older than himself, and I am 
convinced that he would have done so if he 
had had the opportunity. 

I wonder if girls from fifteen to twenty are 
aware of the glamour they cast over the strag- 
gling awkward boys whom they regard and 
treat as mere children. I wonder, now. Young 
women are so keen in such matters. I wonder 
if Miss Nelly Glentworth never suspected until 
the very last night of her visit at Rivermouth 
that I was over ears in love with her pretty 
self, and was suffering pangs as poignant as if 
I had been ten feet high and as old as Methu- 
selah. For, indeed, I was miserable through- 
out all those five weeks. I went down in the 
Latin class at the rate of three boys a day. 
Her fresh young eyes came between me and 
my book, and there was an end of Virgil. 


“ O love, love, love ! 

Love is like a dizziness, 


232 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


It winna let a body 
Gang about his business.” 

I was wretched away from her, and only less 
wretched in her presence. The especial cause 
of my woe was this : I was simply a little boy 
to Miss Glentworth. I knew it. I bewailed 
it. I ground my teeth and wept in secret over 
the fact. If I had been aught else in her eyes 
would she have smoothed my hair so carelessly, 
sending an electric shock through my whole 
system ? would she have walked with me, hand 
in hand, for hours in the old garden ? and once 
when I lay on the sofa, my head aching with 
love and mortification, would she have stooped 
down and kissed me if I had not been a little 
boy ? How I despised little boys ! How I 
hated one particular little boy — too little to 
be loved ! 

I smile over this very grimly even now. My 
sorrow was genuine and bitter. It is a great 
mistake on the part of elderly ladies, male and 
female, to tell a child that he is seeing his hap- 
piest days. Do not you believe a word of it, 
my little friend. The burdens of childhood 
are as hard to bear as the crosses that weigh 
us down later in life, while the happinesses of 
childhood are tame compared with those of our 
maturer years. And even if this were not so, 
it is rank cruelty to throw shadows over the 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


233 


young heart by croaking, “Be merry, for to- 
morrow you die ! ” 

As the last days of Nelly’s visit drew near, 
I fell into a very unhealthy state of mind. To 
have her so frank and unconsciously coquet- 
tish with me was a daily torment ; to be looked 
upon and treated as a child was bitter almonds ; 
but the thought of losing her altogether was 
distraction. 

The summer was at an end. The days were 
perceptibly shorter, and now and then came 
an evening when it was chilly enough to have 
a wood-fire in our sitting-room. The leaves 
were beginning to take hectic tints, and the 
wind was practising the minor pathetic notes 
of its autumnal dirge. Nature and myself ap- 
peared to be approaching our dissolution simul- 
taneously. 

One evening, the evening previous to the 
day set for Nelly’s departure — how well I re- 
member it ! — I found her sitting alone by the 
wide chimney-piece looking musingly at the 
crackling backlog. There were no candles in 
the room. On her face and hands, and on the 
small golden cross at her throat, fell the flick- 
ering firelight — that ruddy, mellow firelight 
in which one’s grandmother would look po- 
etical. 

I drew a low stool from the corner and 


234 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

placed it by the side of her chair. She 
reached out her hand to me, as was her pretty 
fashion, and so we sat for several moments 
silent in the changing glow of the burning 
logs. Presently I moved back the stool so 
that I could see her face in profile without 
being seen by her. I lost her hand by this 
movement, but I could not have spoken with 
the listless touch of her fingers on mine. 
After two or three attempts I said “ Nelly ” a 
good deal louder than I intended. 

Perhaps the effort it cost me was evident in 
my voice. She raised herself quickly in the 
chair and half turned towards me. 

“ Well, Tom?” 

“I — I am very sorry you are going away.” 

“ So am I. I have enjoyed every hour of 
my visit.” 

“ Do you think you will ever come back 
here ? ” 

“ Possibly,” said Nelly, and her eyes wan- 
dered off into the fitful firelight. 

“ I suppose you will forget us all very 
quickly.” 

“ Indeed I shall not. I shall always have 
the pleasantest recollections of Rivermouth.” 

Here the conversation died a natural death. 
Nelly sank into a sort of dream, and I medi- 
tated. Fearing every moment to be inter- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


235 


rupted by some member of the family, I nerved 
myself to make a bold dash. 

“ Nelly.” 

“Well?” 

“ Do you ” — I hesitated. 

“ Do I what ? ” 

“ Love any one very much ? ” 

“ Why, of course I do,” said Nelly, scatter- 
ing her reverie with a merry laugh. “ I love 
Uncle Nutter, and Aunt Nutter, and you — 
and Towser.” 

Towser, our new dog ! I could not stand 
that. I pushed back the stool impatiently and 
stood in front of her. 

“ That ’s not what I mean,” I said angrily. 

“ Well, what do you mean ? ” 

“ Do you love any one to marry him ? ” 

“ The idea of it,” cried Nelly, laughing. 

“ But you must tell me.” 

“ Must, Tom ? ” 

“ Indeed you must, Nelly.” 

She had risen from the chair with an amused, 
perplexed look in her eyes. I held her an 
instant by the dress. 

“ Please tell me.” 

" Oh, you silly boy ! ” cried Nelly. Then 
she rumpled my hair all over my forehead and 
ran laughing out of the room. 

Suppose Cinderella had rumpled the prince’s 


236 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

hair all over his forehead, how would he have 
liked it ? Suppose the Sleeping Beauty when 
the king’s son with a kiss set her and all the 
old clocks a-going in the spellbound castle — 
suppose the young minx had looked up and 
coolly laughed in his eye, I guess the king’s son 
would not have been greatly pleased. 

I hesitated a second or two, and then rushed 
after Nelly just in time to run against Miss 
Abigail, who entered the room with a couple 
of lighted candles. 

“Goodness gracious, Tom !” exclaimed Miss 
Abigail, " are you possessed ? ” 

I left her scraping the warm spermaceti from 
one of her thumbs. 

Nelly was in the kitchen talking quite uncon- 
cernedly with Kitty Collins. There she re- 
mained until supper-time. Supper over, we all 
adjourned to the sitting-room. I planned and 
plotted, but could manage in no way to get 
Nelly alone. She and the Captain played 
cribbage all the evening. 

The next morning my lady did not make her 
appearance until we were seated at the break- 
fast-table. I had got up at daylight myself. 
Immediately after breakfast the carriage arrived 
to take her to the railroad station. A gentle- 
man stepped from this carriage, and greatly 
to my surprise was warmly welcomed by the 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


237 


Captain and Miss Abigail, and by Miss Nelly 
herself, who seemed unnecessarily glad to see 
him. From the hasty conversation that fol- 
lowed I learned that the gentleman had come 
somewhat unexpectedly to conduct Miss Nelly 
to Boston. But how did he know that she was 
to leave that morning? Nelly bade farewell 
to the Captain and Miss Abigail, made a little 
rush and kissed me on the nose, and was gone. 

As the wheels of the hack rolled up the 
street and over my finer feelings, I turned to 
the Captain. 

“ Who was that gentleman, sir ? ” 

“That was Mr. Waldron.” 

“ A relation of yours, sir ? ” I asked craftily. 

“No relation of mine — a relation of Nelly’s,” 
said the Captain, smiling. 

“A cousin,” I suggested, feeling a strange 
hatred spring up in my bosom for the un- 
known. 

“Well, I suppose you might call him a 
cousin for the present. He ’s going to marry 
little Nelly next summer.” 

In one of Peter Parley’s valuable historical 
works is a description of an earthquake at Lis- 
bon. “At the first shock the inhabitants 
rushed into the streets ; the earth yawned at 
their feet and the houses tottered and fell on 
every side.” I staggered past the Captain 


238 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

into the street ; a giddiness came over me ; 
the earth yawned at my feet, and the houses 
threatened to fall in on every side of me. How 
distinctly I remember that momentary sense 
of confusion when everything in the world 
seemed toppling over into ruins. 

As I have remarked, my love for Nelly is a 
thing of the past. I had not thought of her 
for years until I sat down to write this chapter, 
and yet, now that all is said and done, I should 
not care particularly to come across Mrs. Wal- 
dron’s eldest boy in my afternoon’s walk. He 
must be fourteen or fifteen years old by this 
time — the young villain ! 


CHAPTER XIX 


I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 

When a young boy gets to be an old boy, 
when the hair is growing rather thin on the 
top of the old boy’s head, and he has been 
tamed sufficiently to take a sort of chastened 
pleasure in allowing the baby to play with his 
watch-seals — when, I say, an old boy has 
reached this stage in the journey of life, he is 
sometimes apt to indulge in sportive remarks 
concerning his first love. 

Now, though I bless my stars that it was not 
in my power to marry Miss Nelly, I am not 
going to deny my boyish regard for her nor 
laugh at it. As long as it lasted it was a very 
sincere and unselfish love, and rendered me 
proportionately wretched. I say as long as it 
lasted, for one’s first love does not last for- 
ever. 

I am ready, however, to laugh at the amus- 
ing figure I cut after I had really ceased to 
have any deep feeling in the matter. It was 
then I took it into my head to be a Blighted 


240 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Being. This was about two weeks after the 
spectral appearance of Mr. Waldron. 

For a boy of a naturally vivacious disposi- 
tion, the part of a blighted being presented 
difficulties. I had an excellent appetite, I liked 
society, I liked out-of-door sports, I was fond 
of handsome clothes. Now all these things 
were incompatible with the doleful character 
I was to assume, and I proceeded to cast them 
from me. I neglected my hair. I avoided 
my playmates. I frowned abstractedly. I did 
not eat as much as was good for me. I took 
lonely walks. I brooded in solitude. I not 
only committed to memory the more turgid 
poems of the late Lord Byron — Fare thee 
well, and if forever, etc. — but I became a 
despondent poet on my own account, and com- 
posed a string of “ Stanzas to One who will 
understand them.” I think I was a trifle too 
hopeful on that point, for I came across the 
verses several years afterwards, and was quite 
unable to understand them myself. 

It was a great comfort to be so perfectly 
miserable and yet not suffer any. I used to 
look in the glass and gloat over the amount and 
variety of mournful expressions I could throw 
into my features. If I caught myself smiling 
at anything, I cut the smile short with a sigh. 
The oddest thing about all this is, I never 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


241 


once suspected that I was not unhappy. No 
one, not even Pepper Whitcomb, was more 
deceived than I. 

Among the minor pleasures of being blighted 
were the interest and perplexity I excited in 
the simple souls that were thrown in daily con- 
tact with me. Pepper especially. I nearly 
drove him into a corresponding state of mind. 

I had from time to time given Pepper slight 
but impressive hints of my admiration for Some 
One (this was in the early part of Miss Glent- 
worth’s visit) ; I had also led him to infer that 
my admiration was not altogether in vain. He 
was therefore unable to explain the cause of 
my strange behavior, for I had carefully re- 
frained from mentioning to Pepper the fact 
that Some One had turned out to be An- 
other’s. 

I treated Pepper shabbily. I could not resist 
playing on his tenderer feelings. He was a boy 
bubbling over with sympathy for any one in 
any kind of trouble. Our intimacy since Binny 
Wallace’s death had been uninterrupted ; but 
now I moved in a sphere apart, not to be pro- 
faned by the step of an outsider. 

I no longer joined the boys on the play- 
ground at recess. I stayed at my desk read- 
ing some lugubrious volume — usually The 
Mysteries of Udolpho, by the amiable Mrs. 


242 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

Radcliffe. A translation of The Sorrows of 
Werther fell into my hands at this period, and 
if I could have committed suicide without kill- 
ing myself, I should certainly have done so. 

On half-holidays, instead of fraternizing with 
Pepper and the rest of our clique, I would 
wander off alone to Grave Point. 

Grave Point — the place where Binny Wal- 
lace’s body came ashore — was a narrow strip 
of land running out into the river. A line of 
Lombardy poplars, stiff and severe, like a row 
of grenadiers, mounted guard on the water- 
side. On the extreme end of the peninsula 
was an old disused graveyard, tenanted prin- 
cipally by the early settlers who had been 
scalped by the Indians. In a remote corner 
of the cemetery, set apart from the other 
mounds, was the grave of a woman who had 
been hanged in the old colonial times for the 
murder of her infant. Goodwife Polly Haines 
had denied the crime to the last, and after her 
death there had arisen strong doubts as to her 
actual guilt. It was a belief current among 
the lads of the town, that if you went to this 
grave at nightfall on the ioth of November — 
the anniversary of her execution — and asked, 
“ For what did the magistrates hang you ? ” a 
voice would reply, “ Nothing.” 

Many a Rivermouth boy has tremblingly 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


243 


put this question in the dark, and, sure enough, 
Polly Haines invariably answered nothing ! 

A low red-brick wall, broken down in many 
places and frosted over with silvery moss, sur- 
rounded this burial-ground of our Pilgrim Fa- 
thers and their immediate descendants. The 
latest date on any of the headstones was 1760. 
A crop of very funny epitaphs sprung up here 
and there among the overgrown thistles and 
burdocks, and almost every tablet had a death’s- 
head with crossbones engraved upon it, or else 
a puffy round face with a pair of wings stretch- 
ing out from the ears, like this — 



These mortuary emblems furnished me with 
congenial food for reflection. I used to lie in 
the long grass, and speculate on the advantages 
and disadvantages of being a cherub. 

I forget what I thought the advantages were, 
but I remember distinctly of getting into an 
inextricable tangle on two points : How could 
a cherub, being all head and wings, manage to 
sit down when he was tired ? To have to sit 


244 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


down on the back of his head struck me as an 
awkward alternative. Again : Where did a 
cherub carry those indispensable articles (such 
as jackknives, marbles, and pieces of twine) 
which boys in an earthly state of existence 
usually stow away in their trousers-pockets ? 

These were knotty questions, and I was 
never able to dispose of them satisfactorily. 

Meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb would scour 
the whole town in search of me. He finally 
discovered my retreat, and dropped in on me 
abruptly one afternoon, while I was deep in 
the cherub problem. 

“ Look here, Tom Bailey ! ” said Pepper, 
shying a piece of clam-shell indignantly at the 
Hie jacet on a neighboring gravestone, “you 
are just going to the dogs ! Can’t you tell a 
fellow what in thunder ails you, instead of 
prowling round among the tombs like a jolly 
old vampire ? ” 

“ Pepper,” I replied solemnly, “ don’t ask 
me ; you would n’t understand. Some day you 
may. You are too fat and thoughtless now.” 

Pepper stared at me. 

“ Earthly happiness,” I continued, “is a de- 
lusion and a snare. You will never be happy, 
Pepper, until you are a cherub.” 

Pepper, by the bye, would have made an ex- 
cellent cherub, he was so chubby. Having 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


24s 


delivered myself of these gloomy remarks, I 
arose languidly from the grass and moved 
away, leaving Pepper staring after me in mute 
astonishment. I was Hamlet and Werther 
and the late Lord Byron all in one. 

You will ask what my purpose was in culti- 
vating this factitious despondency. I had none. 
Blighted Beings never have any purpose in life 
excepting to be as blighted as possible. 

Of course my present line of business could 
not long escape the eye of Captain Nutter. I 
do not know if the Captain suspected my at- 
tachment for Miss Glentworth. He never 
alluded to it ; but he watched me. Miss Abi- 
gail watched me, Kitty Collins watched me, 
and Sailor Ben watched me. 

“1 can’t make out his signals,” I overheard 
the Admiral remark to my grandfather one day. 
“I hope he ain’t got no kind of sickness aboard.” 

There was something singularly agreeable in 
being an object of so great interest. Some- 
times I had all I could do to preserve my de- 
jected aspect, it was so pleasant to be miserable. 
I incline to the opinion that persons who are 
melancholy without any particular reason, such 
as poets, artists, and young musicians with 
long hair, have rather an enviable time of it. 
In a quiet way I never enjoyed myself better in 
my life than when I was a Blighted Being. 


CHAPTER XX 


IN WHICH I PROVE MYSELF TO BE THE GRANDSON 
OF MY GRANDFATHER 

It was not possible for a boy of my tempera- 
ment to be a blighted being longer than three 
consecutive weeks. 

I was gradually emerging from my self-im- 
posed cloud when events took place that greatly 
assisted in restoring me to a more natural 
frame of mind. I awoke from an imaginary 
trouble to face a real one. 

I suppose you do not know what a financial 
crisis is ? I will give you an illustration. 

You are deeply in debt — say to the amount 
of a quarter of a dollar — to the little knick- 
knack shop round the corner, where they sell 
picture-papers, spruce-gum, needles, and Ma- 
laga raisins. A boy owes you a quarter of a 
dollar, which he promises to pay at a certain 
time. You are depending on this quarter to 
settle accounts with the small shopkeeper. 
The time arrives — and the quarter does not. 
That ’s a financial crisis, in one sense — in 
twenty-five senses, if I may say so. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


247 

When this same thing happens, on a grander 
scale, in the mercantile world, it produces what 
is called a panic. One man’s inability to pay 
his debts ruins another man, who, in turn, 
ruins some one else, and so on, until failure 
after failure makes even the richest capitalists 
tremble. Public confidence is suspended, and 
the smaller fry of merchants are knocked over 
like tenpins. 

These commercial panics occur periodically, 
after the fashion of comets and earthquakes 
and other disagreeable things. Such a panic 
took place in New Orleans in the year 18 — 
and my father’s banking-house went to pieces 
in the crash. 

Of a comparatively large fortune nothing 
remained after paying his debts excepting a 
few thousand dollars, with which he proposed 
to return North and embark in some less haz- 
ardous enterprise. In the meantime it was 
necessary for him to stay in New Orleans to 
wind up the business. 

My grandfather was in some way involved in 
this failure, and lost, I fancy, a considerable 
sum of money ; but he never talked much on 
the subject. He was an unflinching believer 
in the spilt-milk proverb. 

“ It can’t be gathered up,” he would say, 
“ and it ’s no use crying over it. Pitch into 


248 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

the cow and get some more milk, is my 
motto.” 

The suspension of the banking-house was 
bad enough, but there was an attending cir- 
cumstance that gave us, at Rivermouth, a great 
deal more anxiety. The cholera, which some 
one predicted would visit the country that 
year, and which, indeed, had made its appear- 
ance in a mild form at several points along the 
Mississippi River, had broken out with much 
violence at New Orleans. 

The report that first reached us through the 
newspapers was meagre and contradictory ; 
many persons discredited it ; but a letter from 
my mother left us no room for doubt. The 
sickness was in the city. The hospitals were 
filling up, and hundreds of the citizens were 
flying from the stricken place by every steam- 
boat. The unsettled state of my father’s 
affairs made it imperative for him to remain at 
his post ; his desertion at that moment would 
have been at the sacrifice of all he had saved 
from the general wreck. 

As he would be detained in New Orleans at 
least three months, my mother declined to 
come North without him. 

After this we awaited with feverish impa- 
tience the weekly news that came to us from 
the South. The next letter advised us that my 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


249 


parents were well, and that the sickness, so 
far, had not penetrated to the faubourg, or dis- 
trict, where they lived. The following week 
brought less cheering tidings. My father’s 
business, in consequence of the flight of the 
other partners, would keep him in the city be- 
yond the period he had mentioned. The fam- 
ily had moved to Pass Christian, a favorite 
watering-place on Lake Pontchartrain, near 
New Orleans, where he was able to spend part 
of each week. So the return North was post- 
poned indefinitely. 

It was now that the old longing to see my 
parents came back to me with irresistible force. 
I knew my grandfather would not listen to the 
idea of my going to New Orleans at such a 
dangerous time, since he had opposed the jour- 
ney so strongly when the same objection did 
not exist. But I determined to go neverthe- 
less. 

I think I have mentioned the fact that all 
the male members of our family, on my father’s 
side — as far back as the Middle Ages — have 
exhibited in early youth a decided talent for 
running away. It was an hereditary talent. It 
ran in the blood to run away. I do not pretend 
to explain the peculiarity. I simply admit it. 

It was not my fate to change the prescribed 
order of things. I, too, was to run away, 


250 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


thereby proving, if any proof were needed, that 
I was the grandson of my grandfather. I do 
not hold myself responsible for the step any 
more than I do for the shape of my nose, which 
is said to be a facsimile of Captain Nutter’s. 

I have frequently noticed how circumstances 
conspire to help a man, or a boy, when he has 
thoroughly resolved on doing a thing. That 
very week the Rivermouth Barnacle printed an 
advertisement that seemed to have been writ- 
ten on purpose for me. It read as follows — 

WANTED. — A Few Able-bodied Seamen and a 
Cabin-Boy, for the ship Rawlings , now loading for N ew 
Orleans at Johnson’s Wharf, Boston. Apply in person, 

within four days, at the office of Messrs. 

& Co., or on board the Ship. 

How I was to get to New Orleans with only 
$4.62 was a question that had been bother- 
ing me. This advertisement made it as clear 
as day. I would go as cabin-boy. 

I had taken Pepper into my confidence again ; 
I had told him the story of my love for Miss 
Glentworth, with all its harrowing details ; and 
now conceived it judicious to confide in him 
the change about to take place in my life, so 
that, if the Rawlings went down in a gale, my 
friends might have the limited satisfaction of 
knowing what had become of me. 

Pepper shook his head discouragingly, and 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


251 


sought in every way to dissuade me from the 
step. He drew a disenchanting picture of 
the existence of a cabin-boy, whose constant 
duty (according to Pepper) was to have dishes 
broken over his head whenever the captain or 
the mate chanced to be out of humor, which 
was mostly all the time. But nothing Pepper 
said could turn me a hair’s breadth from my 
purpose. 

I had little time to spare, for the advertise- 
ment stated explicitly that applications were 
to be made in person within four days. I 
trembled to think of the bare possibility of 
some other boy snapping up that desirable sit- 
uation. 

It was on Monday that I stumbled upon the 
advertisement. On Tuesday my preparations 
were completed. My baggage — consisting of 
four shirts, half a dozen collars, a piece of shoe- 
maker’s wax (Heaven knows what for !), and 
five stockings, wrapped in a silk handkerchief 
— lay hidden under a loose plank of the stable 
floor. This was my point of departure. 

My plan was to take the last train for Bos- 
ton, in order to prevent the possibility of im- 
mediate pursuit, if any should be attempted. 
The train left at 4 p. m. 

I ate no breakfast and little dinner that day. 
I avoided the Captain’s eye, and would not 


252 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


have looked Miss Abigail or Kitty in the face 
for the wealth of the Indies. 

When it was time to start for the station I 
retired quietly to the stable and uncovered 
my bundle. I lingered a moment to kiss the 
white star on Gypsy’s forehead, and was nearly 
unmanned when the little animal returned the 
caress by lapping my cheek. Twice I went 
back and patted her. 

On reaching the station I purchased my 
ticket with a bravado air that ought to have 
aroused the suspicion of the ticket-master, and 
hurried to the car, where I sat fidgeting until 
the train shot out into the broad daylight. 

Then I drew a long breath and looked about 
me. The first object that saluted my sight 
was Sailor Ben, four or five seats behind me, 
reading the Rivermouth Barnacle ! 

Reading was not an easy art to Sailor Ben ; 
he grappled with the sense of a paragraph as 
if it were a polar bear, and generally got the 
worst of it. On the present occasion he was 
having a hard struggle, judging by the way he 
worked his mouth and rolled his eyes. He had 
evidently not seen me. But what was he doing 
on the Boston train ? 

Without lingering to solve the question, I 
stole gently from my seat and passed into the 
forward car. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


253 


This was very awkward, having the Admiral 
on board. I could not understand it at all. 
Could it be possible that the old boy had got tired 
of land and was running away to sea himself ? 
That was too absurd a supposition. I glanced 
nervously towards the car door now and then, 
half expecting to see him come after me. 

We had passed one or two way-stations, and 
I had quieted down a good deal, when I began 
to feel as if somebody was looking steadily at 
the back of my head. I turned round involun- 
tarily, and there was Sailor Ben again, at the 
farther end of the car, wrestling with the 
Rivermouth Barnacle as before. 

I began to grow very uncomfortable indeed. 
Was it by design or chance that he thus dogged 
my steps ? If he was aware of my presence, 
why did he not speak to me at once ? Why 
did he steal round, making no sign, like a par- 
ticularly unpleasant phantom ? May be it was 
not Sailor Ben. I peeped at him slyly. There 
was no mistaking that tanned, genial phiz of 
his. Very odd he did not see me ! 

Literature, even in the mild form of a coun- 
try newspaper, always had the effect of poppies 
on the Admiral. When I stole another glance 
in his direction his hat was tilted over his right 
eye in the most dissolute style, and the River- 
mouth Barnacle lay in a confused heap beside 


254 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


him. He had succumbed. He was fast asleep. 
If he would only keep asleep until we reached 
our destination ! 

By and by I discovered that the rear car had 
been detached from the train at the last stop- 
ping-place. This accounted satisfactorily for 
Sailor Ben’s singular movements, and con- 
siderably calmed my fears. Nevertheless, I 
did not like the aspect of things. 

The Admiral continued to snooze like a good 
fellow, and was snoring melodiously as we 
glided at a slackened pace over a bridge and 
into Boston. 

I grasped my pilgrim’s bundle, and, hurrying 
out of the car, dashed up the first street that 
presented itself. 

It was a narrow, noisy, zigzag street, crowded 
with trucks and obstructed with bales and 
boxes of merchandise. I did not pause to 
breathe until I had placed a respectable dis- 
tance between me and the railroad station. By 
this time it was nearly twilight. 

I had got into the region of dwelling-houses, 
and was about to seat myself on a doorstep to 
rest, when, lo ! there was the Admiral trun- 
dling along on the opposite sidewalk, under a 
full spread of canvas, as he would have ex- 
pressed it. 

I was off again in an instant at a rapid pace ; 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


255 


but in spite of all I could do he held his own 
without any perceptible exertion. He had a 
very ugly gait to get away from, the Admiral. 
I did not dare to run, for fear of being mis- 
taken for a thief, a suspicion which my bundle 
would naturally lend color to. 

I pushed ahead, however, at a brisk trot, and 
must have got over one or two miles — my 
pursuer neither gaining nor losing ground — 
when I concluded to surrender at discretion. 
I saw that Sailor Ben was determined to have 
me, and, knowing my man, I knew that escape 
was highly improbable. 

So I turned round and waited for him to 
catch up with me, which he did in a few sec- 
onds, looking rather sheepish at first. 

“ Sailor Ben,” said I severely, “ do I under- 
stand that you are dogging my steps ? ” 

“ Well, little messmate,” replied the Admiral, 
rubbing his nose, which he always did when he 
was disconcerted, “I am kind o’ followin’ in 
your wake.” 

“ Under orders ? ” 

“ Under orders.” 

“ Under the Captain’s orders ? ” 

“ Surely.” 

“ In other words, my grandfather has sent 
you to fetch me back to Rivermouth ? ” 

“ That ’s about it,” said the Admiral, with a 
burst of frankness. 


256 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

“ And I must go with you whether I want to 
or not ? ” 

“ The Capen’s very identical words ! ” 

There was nothing to be done. I bit my 
lips with suppressed anger, and signified that I 
was at his disposal, since I could not help it. 
The impression was very strong in my mind 
that the Admiral would not hesitate to put me 
in irons if I showed signs of mutiny. 

It was too late to return to Rivermouth that 
night — a fact which I communicated to the 
old boy sullenly, inquiring at the same time 
what he proposed to do about it. 

He said we would cruise about for some ra- 
tions, and then make a night of it. I did not 
condescend to reply, though I hailed the sug- 
gestion of something to eat with inward enthu- 
siasm, for I had not taken enough food that 
day to keep life in a canary. 

We wandered back to the railroad station, in 
the waiting-room of which was a kind of res- 
taurant presided over by a severe-looking young 
lady. Here we had a cup of coffee apiece, 
several tough doughnuts, and some blocks of 
venerable sponge-cake. The young lady who 
attended on us, whatever her age was then, 
must have been a mere child when that sponge- 
cake was made. 

The Admiral’s acquaintance with Boston 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 257 

hotels was slight ; but he knew of a quiet lodg- 
ing-house near by, much patronized by sea- 
captains, and kept by a former friend of his. 

In this house, which had seen its best days, 
we were accommodated with a mouldy cham- 
ber containing two cot-beds, two chairs, and a 
cracked pitcher on a washstand. The mantel- 
shelf was ornamented with three big pink 
conch-shells, resembling pieces of petrified 
liver ; and over these hung a cheap lurid print, 
in which a United States sloop of war was giv- 
ing a British frigate particular fits. It is very 
strange how our own ships never seem to suffer 
any in these terrible engagements. It shows 
what a nation we are. 

An oil lamp on a deal table cast a dismal 
glare over the apartment, which was cheerless 
in the extreme. I thought of our sitting-room 
at home, with its flowery wall-paper and gay 
curtains and soft lounges; I saw Major El- 
kanah Nutter (my grandfather’s father) in 
powdered wig and Federal uniform, looking 
down benevolently from his gilt frame between 
the bookcases ; I pictured the Captain and 
Miss Abigail sitting at the cosey round table 
in the moonlight glow of the astral lamp ; and 
then I fell to wondering how they would re- 
ceive me when I came back. I wondered if 
the Prodigal Son had any idea that his father 


258 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


was going to kill the fatted calf for him, and 
how he felt about it, on the whole. 

Though I was very low in spirits, I put on a 
bold front to Sailor Ben, you will understand. 
To be caught and caged in this manner was 
a frightful shock to my vanity. He tried to 
draw me into conversation ; but I answered in 
icy monosyllables. He again suggested we 
should make a night of it, and hinted broadly 
that he was game for any amount of riotous 
dissipation, even to the extent of going to see 
a play if I wanted to. I declined haughtily. 
I was dying to go. 

He then threw out a feeler on the subject of 
dominoes and checkers, and observed in a gen- 
eral way that “ seven up ” was a capital game ; 
but I repulsed him at every point. 

I saw that the Admiral was beginning to 
feel hurt by my systematic coldness. We had 
always been such hearty friends until now. It 
was too bad of me to fret that tender, honest 
old heart even for an hour. I really did love 
the ancient boy, and when in a disconsolate 
way he ordered up a pitcher of beer, I unbent 
so far as to partake of some in a teacup. He 
recovered his spirits instantly, and took out 
his cuddy clay pipe for a smoke. 

Between the beer and the soothing fragrance 
of the navy-plug, I fell into a pleasanter mood 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


259 

myself, and, it being too late now to go to the 
theatre, I condescended to say — addressing 
the northwest corner of the ceiling — that 
“ seven up ” was a capital game. Upon this 
hint the Admiral disappeared, and returned 
shortly with a very dirty pack of cards. 

As we played, with varying fortunes, by the 
flickering flame of the lamp, he sipped his 
beer and became communicative. He seemed 
immensely tickled by the fact that I had come 
to Boston. It leaked out presently that he 
and the Captain had had a wager on the sub- 
ject. 

The discovery of my plans and who had dis- 
covered them were points on which the Admi- 
ral refused to throw any light. They had been 
discovered, however, and the Captain had 
laughed at the idea of my running away. Sailor 
Ben, on the contrary, had stoutly contended 
that I meant to slip cable and be off. Where- 
upon the Captain offered to bet him a dollar 
that I would not go. And it was partly on 
account of this wager that Sailor Ben refrained 
from capturing me when he might have done 
so at the start. 

Now, as the fare to and from Boston, with 
the lodging expenses, would cost at least five 
dollars, I did not see what he gained by win- 
ning the wager. The Admiral rubbed his nose 


260 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

violently when this view of the case presented 
itself. 

I asked him why he did not take me from 
the train at the first stopping-place and return 
to Rivermouth by the down train at 4.30. He 
explained : having purchased a ticket for Bos- 
ton, he considered himself bound to the own- 
ers (the stockholders of the road) to fulfil his 
part of the contract. To use his own words, 
he had “ shipped for the viage.” 

This struck me as being so deliciously funny, 
that after I was in bed and the light was out I 
could not help laughing aloud once or twice. I 
suppose the Admiral must have thought I was 
meditating another escape, for he made period- 
ical visits to my bed throughout the night, sat- 
isfying himself by kneading me all over that I 
had not evaporated. 

I was all there the next morning, when Sailor 
Ben half awakened me by shouting merrily, 
“ All hands on deck ! ” The words rang in my 
ears like a part of my own dream, for I was at 
that instant climbing up the side of the Raw- 
lings to offer myself as cabin-boy. 

The Admiral was obliged to shake me 
roughly two or three times before he could 
detach me from the dream. I opened my eyes 
with effort, and stared stupidly round the 
room. Bit by bit my real situation dawned on 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 261 

me. What a sickening sensation that is, when 
one is in trouble, to wake up feeling free for 
a moment, and then to fihd yesterday’s sorrow 
all ready to go on again ! 

“ Well, little messmate, how fares it ? ” 

I was too much depressed to reply. The 
thought of returning to Rivermouth chilled 
me. How could I face Captain Nutter, to say 
nothing of Miss Abigail and Kitty ? How the 
Temple Grammar School boys would look at 
me ! How Conway and Seth Rodgers would 
exult over my mortification ! And what if the 
Rev. Wibird Hawkins should allude to me in 
his next Sunday’s sermon ? 

Sailor Ben was wise in keeping an eye on 
me, for after these thoughts took possession of 
my mind, I wanted only the opportunity to 
give him the slip. 

The keeper of the lodgings did not supply 
meals to his guests ; so we breakfasted at a 
small chop-house in a crooked street on our 
way to the cars. The city was not astir yet, 
and looked glum and careworn in the damp 
morning atmosphere. 

Here and there as we passed along was a 
sharp-faced shop-boy taking down shutters ; 
and now and then we met a seedy man who 
had evidently spent the night in a doorway. 
Such early birds and a few laborers with their 


262 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

tin kettles were the only signs of life to be seen 
until we came to the station, where I insisted 
on paying for my own ticket. I did not relish 
being conveyed from place to place, like a 
felon changing prisons, at somebody else’s 
expense. 

On entering the car I sunk into a seat next 
the window, and Sailor Ben deposited himself 
beside me, cutting off all chance of escape. 

The car filled up soon after this, and I won- 
dered if there was anything in my mien that 
would lead the other passengers to suspect I 
was a boy who had run away and was being 
brought back. 

A man in front of us — he was near-sighted, 
as I discovered later by his reading a guide- 
book with his nose — brought the blood to my 
cheeks by turning round and peering at me 
steadily. I rubbed a clear spot on the cloudy 
window-glass at my elbow, and looked out to 
avoid him. 

There, in the travellers’ room, was the severe- 
looking young lady piling up her blocks of 
sponge-cake in alluring pyramids and industri- 
ously intrenching herself behind a breastwork 
of squash pie. I saw with pleasure numerous 
victims walk up to the counter and recklessly 
sow the seeds of death in their constitutions 
by eating her doughnuts. I had got quite in- 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 263 

terested in her, when the whistle sounded and 
the train began to move. 

The Admiral and I did not talk much on the 
journey. I stared out of the window most of 
the time, speculating as to the probable nature 
of the reception in store for me at the terminus 
of the road. 

What would the Captain say ? and Mr. 
Grimshaw, what would he do about it ? Then 
I thought of Pepper Whitcomb. Dire was the 
vengeance I meant to wreak on Pepper, for 
who but he had betrayed me ? Pepper alone 
had been the repository of my secret — perfidi- 
ous Pepper ! 

As we left station after station behind us, I 
felt less and less like encountering the mem- 
bers of our family. Sailor Ben fathomed what 
was passing in my mind, for he leaned over and 
said — 

“ I don’t think as the Capen will bear down 
very hard on you.” 

But it was not that. It was not the fear of 
any physical punishment that might be in- 
flicted ; it was the sense of my own folly that 
was creeping over me ; for during the long, 
silent ride I had examined my conduct from 
every standpoint, and there was no view I 
could take of myself in which I did not look 
like a very foolish person indeed. 


264 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

As we came within sight of the spires of 
Rivermouth, I would not have cared if the up 
train, which met us outside the town, had run 
into us and ended me. 

Contrary to my expectation and dread, the 
Captain was not visible when we stepped from 
the cars. Sailor Ben glanced among the crowd 
of faces, apparently looking for him too. Con- 
way was there — he was always hanging about 
the station — and if he had intimated in any 
way that he knew of my disgrace and enjoyed 
it, I should have walked into him, I am cer- 
tain. 

But this defiant feeling entirely deserted me 
by the time we reached the Nutter House. 
The Captain himself opened the door. 

“Come on board, sir,” said Sailor Ben, 
scraping his left foot and touching his hat 
sea-fashion. 

My grandfather nodded to Sailor Ben, some- 
what coldly I thought, and much to my aston- 
ishment kindly took me by the hand. 

I was unprepared for this, and the tears, 
which no amount of severity would have wrung 
from me, welled up to my eyes. 

The expression of my grandfather’s face, as 
I glanced at it hastily, was grave and gentle ; 
there was nothing in it of anger or reproof. I 
followed him into the sitting-room, and, obey- 



THE MEMORIAL ROOM 











THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 265 

ing a motion of his hand, seated myself on the 
sofa. He remained standing by the round 
table for a moment, lost in thought, then 
leaned over and picked up a letter. 

It was a letter with a great black seal. 


CHAPTER XXI 


IN WHICH I LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 

A letter with a great black seal ! 

I knew then what had happened as well as 
I know it now. But which was it, father or 
mother? I do not like to look back to the 
agony and suspense of that moment. 

My father had died at New Orleans during 
one of his weekly visits to the city. The letter 
bearing these tidings had reached Rivermouth 
the evening of my flight — had passed me on 
the road by the down train. 

I must turn back for a moment to that event- 
ful evening. When I failed to make my ap- 
pearance at supper, the Captain began to sus- 
pect that I had really started on my wild tour 
southward — a conjecture which Sailor Ben’s 
absence helped to confirm. I had evidently 
got off by the train and Sailor Ben had fol- 
lowed me. 

There was no telegraphic communication 
between Boston and Rivermouth in those 
days ; so my grandfather could do nothing but 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 267 

await the result. Even if there had been an- 
other mail to Boston, he could not have availed 
himself of it, not knowing how to address a 
message to the fugitives. The post-office was 
naturally the last place either I or the Admiral 
would think of visiting. 

My grandfather, however, was too full of 
trouble to allow this to add to his distress. 
He knew that the faithful old sailor would not 
let me come to any harm, and, even if I had 
managed for the time being to elude him, was 
sure to bring me back sooner or later. 

Our return, therefore, by the first train on 
the following day did not surprise him. 

I was greatly puzzled, as I have said, by the 
gentle manner of his reception ; but when we 
were alone together in the sitting-room, and he 
began slowly to unfold the letter, I understood 
it all. I caught a glimpse of my mother’s hand- 
writing in the superscription, and there was 
nothing left to tell me. 

My grandfather held the letter a few sec- 
onds irresolutely, and then commenced reading 
it aloud ; but he could get no further than the 
date. 

“ I can’t read it, Tom,” said the old gentle- 
man, breaking down. “ I thought I could.” 

He handed it to me. I took the letter 
mechanically, and hurried away with it to my 


268 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

little room, where I had passed so many happy 
hours. 

The week that followed the receipt of this 
letter is nearly a blank in my memory. I re- 
member that the days appeared endless ; that 
at times I could not realize the misfortune that 
had befallen us, and my heart upbraided me 
for not feeling a deeper grief ; that a full sense 
of my loss would now and then sweep over me 
like an inspiration, and I would steal away to 
my chamber or wander forlornly about the gar- 
dens. I remember this, but little more. 

As the days went by my first grief subsided, 
and in its place grew up a want which I have 
experienced at every step in life from boyhood 
to manhood. Often, even now, after all these 
years, when I see a lad of twelve or fourteen 
walking by his father’s side, and glancing mer- 
rily up at his face, I turn and look after them, 
and am conscious that I have missed compan- 
ionship most sweet and sacred. 

I shall not dwell on this portion of my story. 
There were many tranquil, pleasant hours in 
store for me at that period, and I prefer to 
turn to them. 

One evening the Captain came smiling into 
the sitting-room with an open letter in his 
hand. My mother had arrived at New York, 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 269 

and would be with us the next day. For the 
first time in weeks — years, it seemed to me — 
something of the old cheerfulness mingled with 
our conversation round the evening lamp. I 
was to go to Boston with the Captain to meet 
her and bring her home. I need not describe 
that meeting. With my mother’s hand in 
mine once more, all the long years we had been 
parted appeared like a dream. Very dear to 
me was the sight of that slender, pale woman 
passing from room to room, and lending a pa- 
tient grace and beauty to the saddened life of 
the old house. 

Everything was changed with us now. There 
were consultations with lawyers, and signing 
of papers, and correspondence ; for my father’s 
affairs had been left in great confusion. And 
when these were settled, the evenings were 
not long enough for us to hear all my mother 
had to tell of the scenes she had passed through 
in the ill-fated city. 

Then there were old times to talk over, full 
of reminiscences of Aunt Chloe and little black 
Sam. Little black Sam, by the bye, had been 
taken by his master from my father’s service 
ten months previously, and put on a sugar- 
plantation near Baton Rouge. Not relishing 
the change, Sam had run away, and by some 
mysterious agency got into Canada, from which 


270 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

place he had sent back several indecorous mes- 
sages to his late owner. Aunt Chloe was still 
in New Orleans, employed as nurse in one of 
the cholera hospital wards, and the Desmou- 
lins, near neighbors of ours, had purchased the 
pretty brick house among the orange-trees. 

How all these simple details interested me 
will be readily understood by any boy who has 
been long absent from home. 

I was sorry when it became necessary to 
discuss questions more nearly affecting myself. 
I had been removed from school temporarily, 
but it was decided, after much consideration, 
that I should not return, the decision being 
left, in a manner, in my own hands. 

The Captain wished to carry out his son’s in- 
tention and send me to college, as I was fully 
prepared to undergo the preliminary examina- 
tions. This, however, would have been a heavy 
drain on the modest income reverting to my 
mother after the settlement of my father’s 
estate, and the Captain proposed to take the 
expense upon himself, not seeing clearly what 
other disposal to make of me. 

In the midst of our discussions a letter came 
from my Uncle Snow, a merchant in New 
York, generously offering me a place in his 
counting-house. The case resolved itself into 
this : If I went to college, I should have to 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


271 


devote several years to my studies, and at the 
end of the collegiate course would have no 
settled profession. If I accepted my uncle’s 
offer, which could not stand waiting, I should 
at once be in a comparatively independent 
position. It was hard to give up the long- 
cherished dream of being a Harvard boy ; but 
I gave it up. 

The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow’s 
wish that I should enter his counting-house 
immediately. The cause of my good uncle’s 
haste was this : he was afraid that I would 
turn out to be a poet before he could make a 
merchant of me. 

His fears were based upon the fact that I 
had published in the Rivermouth Barnacle 
some verses addressed in a familiar manner 
To the Moon. Now, the idea of a boy, with 
his living to get, placing himself in communi- 
cation with the Moon, struck the mercantile 
mind as monstrous. It was not only a bad 
investment, it was lunacy. 

We adopted Uncle Snow’s views so far as 
to accede to his proposition forthwith. My 
mother, I neglected to say, was also to reside 
in New York. 

I shall not draw a picture of Pepper Whit- 
comb’s disgust when the news was imparted 
to him, nor attempt to paint Sailor Ben’s dis- 


272 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

tress at the prospect of losing his little mess- 
mate. 

In the excitement of preparing for the jour- 
ney I did not feel any very deep regret myself. 
But when the moment came for leaving, and I 
saw my small trunk lashed up behind the car- 
riage, then the pleasantness of the old life and 
a vague dread of the new came over me, and a 
mist filled my eyes, shutting out the group of 
schoolfellows, including all the members of the 
Centipede Club, who had come down to the 
house to see me off. 

As the carriage swept round the corner, I 
leaned out of the window to take a last look at 
Sailor Ben’s cottage, and there was the Admi- 
ral’s flag flying at half-mast. 

So I left Rivermouth, little dreaming that I 
was not to see the old place again for many 
and many a year. 


CHAPTER XXII 


EXEUNT OMNES 

With the close of my schooldays at River- 
mouth this modest chronicle ends. 

The new life upon which I entered, the new 
friends and foes I encountered on the road, 
and what I did and what I did not, are matters 
that do not come within the scope of these 
pages. But before I write Finis to the record 
as it stands, before I leave it — feeling as if I 
were once more going away from my boyhood 
— I have a word or two to say concerning a 
few of the personages who have figured in the 
story, if you will allow me to call Gypsy a 
personage. 

I am sure that the reader who has followed 
me thus far will be willing to hear what became 
of her, and Sailor Ben and Miss Abigail and 
the Captain. 

First about Gypsy. A month after my de- 
parture from Rivermouth the Captain informed 
me by letter that he had parted with the little 
mare, according to agreement. She had been 


274 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

sold to the ring-master of a travelling circus (I 
had stipulated on this disposal of her), and was 
about to set out on her travels. She did not 
disappoint my glowing anticipations, but be- 
came quite a celebrity in her way, by dancing 
the polka to slow music on a pine-board ball- 
room constructed for the purpose. 

I chanced once, a long while afterwards, to 
be in a country town where her troupe was 
giving exhibitions ; I even read the gaudily 
illumined show-bill, setting forth the accom- 
plishments of the far-famed Arabian trick pony 
Zuleika, formerly owned by the Prince Shaz- 
Zaman of Damascus — but failed to recognize 
my dear little mustang girl behind those high- 
sounding titles, and so, alas ! did not attend 
the performance. I hope all the praises she 
received and all the spangled trappings she 
wore did not spoil her ; but I am afraid they 
did, for she was always overmuch given to the 
vanities of this world. 

Miss Abigail regulated the domestic des- 
tinies of my grandfather’s household until the 
day of her death, which Dr. Theophilus Tredick 
solemnly averred was hastened by the inveter- 
ate habit she had contracted of swallowing 
unknown quantities of hot-drops whenever she 
fancied herself out of sorts. Eighty-seven 
empty vials were found in a bonnet-box on a 
shelf in her bedroom closet. 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


2 75 


The old house became very lonely when the 
family got reduced to Captain Nutter and 
Kitty ; and when Kitty passed away, my grand- 
father divided his time between Rivermouth 
and New York. 

Sailor Ben did not long survive his little 
Irish lass, as he always fondly called her. At 
his demise, which took place about six years 
ago, he left his property in trust to the man- 
agers of a “ Home for Aged Mariners.” In 
his will, which was a very whimsical document 
— written by himself, and worded with much 
shrewdness, too — he warned the Trustees that 
when he got “ aloft ” he intended to keep his 
“ weather eye ” on them, and should send “ a 
speritual shot across their bows” and bring 
them to, if they did n’t treat the Aged Mari- 
ners handsomely. 

He also expressed a wish to have his body 
stitched up in a shotted hammock and dropped 
into the harbor ; but as he did not strenuously 
insist on this, and as it was not in accordance 
with my grandfather’s preconceived notions of 
Christian burial, the Admiral was laid at rest 
beside Kitty, in the Old South Burying-Ground, 
with an anchor that would have delighted him 
neatly carved on his headstone. 

I am sorry the fire has gone out in the old 
ship’s stove in that sky-blue cottage at the 


276 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


head of the wharf ; I am sorry they have taken 
down the flagstaff and painted over the port- 
holes ; for I loved the old cabin as it was. 
They might have let it alone ! 

For several months after leaving Rivermouth 
I carried on a voluminous correspondence with 
Pepper Whitcomb ; but it gradually dwindled 
down to a single letter a month, and then to 
none at all. But while he remained at the 
Temple Grammar School he kept me advised 
of the current gossip of the town and the do- 
ings of the Centipedes. 

As one by one the boys left the academy — 
Adams, Harris, Marden, Blake, and Langdon 
— to seek their fortunes elsewhere, there was 
less to interest me in the old seaport ; and 
when Pepper himself went to Philadelphia to 
read law, I had no one to give me an inkling 
of what was going on. 

There was not much to go on, to be sure. 
Great events no longer considered it worth their 
while to honor so quiet a place. One Fourth 
of July the Temple Grammar School burnt 
down — set on fire, it was supposed, by an ec- 
centric squib that was seen to dart into an 
upper window — and Mr. Grimshaw retired 
from public life, married, “and lived happily 
ever after,” as the story-books say. 

The Widow Conway, I am able to state, did 


THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


2 77 


not succeed in enslaving Mr. Meeks, the apothe- 
cary, who united himself clandestinely to one 
of Miss Dorothy Gibbs’s young ladies, and lost 
the patronage of Primrose Hall in consequence. 

Young Conway went into the grocery busi- 
ness with his ancient chum, Rodgers — Rodg- 
ers & Conway ! I read the sign only last 
summer when I was down in Rivermouth, and 
had half a mind to pop into the shop and shake 
hands with him, and ask him if he wanted to 
fight. I contented myself, however, with flat- 
tening my nose against his dingy shop window, 
and beheld Conway, in red whiskers and blue 
overalls, weighing out sugar for a customer — 
giving him short weight, I would bet any- 
thing ! 

I have reserved my pleasantest word for the 
last. It is touching the Captain. The Cap- 
tain is still hale and rosy, and if he does not 
relate his exploit in the war of 1812 as spirit- 
edly as he used to, he makes up by relating it 
more frequently and telling it differently every 
time. He passes his winters in New York and 
his summers in the Nutter House, which threat- 
ens to prove a hard nut for the destructive 
gentleman with the scythe and the hour-glass, 
for the seaward gable has not yet yielded a 
clapboard to the east wind these twenty years. 
The Captain has now become the Oldest In- 


278 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 

habitant in Rivermouth, and so I do not laugh 
at the Oldest Inhabitant any more, but pray in 
my heart that he may occupy the post of honor 
for half a century to come ! 

So ends the Story of a Bad Boy — but not 
such a very bad boy, as I told you to begin 
with. 


September, 1868. 



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